


we dug these holes we crawled into

by acid_glue234



Series: you're just another song and dance [11]
Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, Mild Language, New York City, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:30:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_glue234/pseuds/acid_glue234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana's so lost in her thoughts she doesn't even hear the light footsteps patting up behind her until two hands slip around her waist and small, nimble fingers dig into her sides. Rachel startles her at first, but then a chin rests on Santana's shoulder, and the words, "It's just me," are whispered into her ear, so Santana allows herself to relax again. (Part XI of the "you're just another song and dance" series, Santana's POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the more i run, the more i am convinced

**Author's Note:**

> i originally went a little overboard with this chapter and made it over 1600 words, so i ended up splitting it in half with the next chapter.

She bitches about it to anyone who will listen, which is mostly just Henry and Cole while she's on shift. The worst part is she doesn't even understand why she's so freaking pissed off. It's probably because Rachel didn't even bother to tell her the gazillion times they telephoned over the last three weeks. 

Like, where the fuck did this guy even come from? Well, she knows where he's from—Rachel told her _that_ much—but he wasn't in any of the pictures Santana saw on Rachel's Facebook or Instagram, and hell, he doesn't even look like someone Rachel would date.

"He's not Rachel's type at all," she goes on, ignoring Henry's very blatant eye roll, because what does he know anyway? "Rachel likes clean cut, leading men who aren't too bright. This guy is a fucking Syracuse student. And he's only seventeen, for Christ sakes!"

"What'd you say his name was again?" Cole asks, for the second time tonight, because she is high as shit—Santana can tell by her dull expression and the glossy redness in her eyes. 

"Lloyd Higgins. _Lloyd fucking Higgins_. Is that not ridiculous?" she rants, ignoring a customer further down the counter when she holds her glass up for a refill. "And he's from Wyoming, which—the fuck kinda state is that? I mean, where even is that on the map?" 

"It's between Montana and Colorado," Cole supplies. 

"Hush," Santana says, putting a finger to her lips. "No one asked you." 

"You just—" 

"This isn't going to last, you know." Santana reaches behind the bar and carefully sets down a full bottle of Ciroc. "The guy is a total prick, I can feel it." 

"I don't know," Henry counters, "He seemed really cool to me." 

"You only talked to him for five minutes, Henry." 

"So? That's five minutes more than you have."

"Fuck you." 

"You wish." 

Santana pours out a shot and then looks around for Todd before throwing it back. She winces through the acrid taste. "Anal's not really my cup of tea, Gingerbread, but thanks for offering." 

"Now, _that_ has to be the biggest lie I've ever heard," Cole teases, bouncing her eyebrows around. 

Santana only snorts—like fuck they ever went that far, but Cole likes to joke about her sex life, and the look on Henry's face when he chokes on his olive martini is so totally worth it. It almost makes her feel better, but not entirely. "I can't believe Rachel's first New York boyfriend could have such a lame name." She can only imagine what the poor soul is like with a sorrowful name like Lloyd. "Never mind that, but the kid's a fucking baby." 

"But a smart baby to have graduated a year early," Henry says, and Santana has to physically restrain herself from smacking him in the face with her rag. 

"Pick a side now, Henry, or forever hold your peace."

Henry looks amused as he takes another quick sip of his drink. "Although that statement made no type of sense, I guess I'll pick your side."

Santana looks to Cole next, but she only cocks her head to the side with a puzzled expression. "I don't even get why we have to pick sides over something like this. I mean, I think it's cool Rachel has a boyfriend," she says, automatically earning herself a place right at the top of Santana's hit list. Raising her hands in defense, Cole adds, "C’mon, dude, maybe she'll even be a bit looser now that she can finally get some good—"

Santana stops her right there. "Please, please do not ever refer to Rachel's sex life with Lloyd while I'm around. That is not a mental image I need to suffer from."

And she knows it sounds cruel, but she stopped fantasizing about heterosexual relations a long time ago. She's only half-kidding, mostly, but Henry obviously doesn't think it's funny. "I'm sorry, but that is very hypocritical of you, Santana. After the many times you've bragged about your sexual encounters to Rachel, you can't even bare to be there for her now?"

"That's because she hasn't _let me_ ," Santana exasperates, slamming a cup down on to the counter, but good thing it's only plastic or else that would've had to come out of her check for this month.

A few customers look in their direction, but Santana just stares back until they glance away. 

Fucking eavesdroppers. 

"Rachel doesn't tell me squat anymore—not like she talks to Angela and Gwen anyway, so who's side are you taking, Cole?" she inquires again, quirking a sharp eyebrow.

"Yours," Cole says immediately, and Santana smiles, because at least not all of her friends are sellouts. 

\--

An hour before last call, at around one in the morning, Rachel comes in with Lloyd, and Santana feels like sticking her head in a blender. It's Cole who points them out, so Santana tries not to look over in that direction of the club, but that plan absolutely fails when Rachel comes to the bar to order a few drinks. 

Despite herself, Santana smirks as she fills the order. "Why couldn't your boyfriend be a gentleman and buy the drinks?" she wonders, raising her eyebrows in question. "His feet broken or something?"

Rachel only smiles tightly and says, "He doesn't have a fake yet, and regardless, I offered."

"How cute."

Glances are exchanged, and Henry awkwardly clears his throat, probably hoping to clear the odd tension, but that lame attempt only succeeds in making everyone more aware of it. "Santana, is there something you'd like to say?" Rachel presses, eyes narrowed thin. "Because if there is, we can talk about this in private, if you'd like."

She waits a moment and stares Rachel head on before shaking her head and cracking a fake smile. "Nope. Go on," she says, jutting her chin to the right. "I'm sure Higgins is missing his babysitter. You don't wanna keep him waiting for too long or he might become impatient and waddle off all on his lonesome."

Rachel slowly wraps her fingers around her drinks and then leans forward to whisper, very close to Santana's ear, "We'll talk more when you get home." And then she walks off further down the bar counter where Lloyd is sitting, and Santana rolls her eyes, unsure if that's a threat or a warning. Both, maybe. Whatever. 

Cole snickers into her hand, that instigating bitch. "Ooh, someone's in the doghouse."

Santana shrugs noncommittally and tries to go back to work in order to distract herself from everyone around her, but tonight must really be her fucking night, because not even five minutes pass before Jenn comes in, smiles in Santana's direction, and then starts heading her way. She greets Henry and Cole before leaning over the bar to press a soft kiss to Santana's lips. It's...kind of nice after such a long day of feeling like second best. 

With a wink, Cole excuses herself to go dance, claiming, "This is my jam." She grabs Henry's hand and insists he come with her, and Henry's always game to grind against something, even the wall, so he leaves Santana and Jenn with a fist bump and a smile respectfully. 

Santana arches a brow as she throws a towel over her shoulder and fixes Jenn her usual. "Didn't know you were stopping by tonight."

Jenn runs a hand through her dark hair and then shrugs a shoulder. "I just thought you'd be happy to see me. We haven't hung out ever since..." She presses her lips together and side-eyes Rachel, who's sitting further down the bar counter. "Anyway," she says, smiling through her obvious bitterness. "How was her trip?"

It's nice that Jenn tries to act like she gives a fuck what Rachel does with her life for Santana's sake, but it's really not necessary. Santana's used to the women in her life not getting along. It's always the ultimatum game—either her best friend or her girlfriend. It's not the first time she's done this dance, so despite the awkwardness, she plays along and says, "From what I know, she had a great time. Meeting new people, learning new shit—all that fun stuff." She tries to keep the annoyed bite out of her tone, but she's sure it comes through anyway by the look on Jenn's face. 

Jenn glances down the counter again, a little longer this time, and then furrows her eyebrows. "Did something happen between you two?" she asks, always the perceptive one. 

Santana purses her lips. "What makes you say that?"

"Before, you said _from what I know_ , and when it comes to Rachel, you usually always know," Jenn points out. 

Biting down on the inside of her cheek, Santana concentrates super hard on wiping down a glass until it's spotless and then she glances back up at her concerned girlfriend. "It's just that—Rachel and I," she starts, rolling her eyes a little with a bitter smile. "We tell each other everything, and she didn't even tell me that she met someone."

"Someone," Jenn drawls thoughtfully. "Like—"

"A boyfriend. A fucking boyfriend," Santana scoffs, still not quite believing it, because Rachel's been single for almost five months now—it's just weird seeing her with someone new. "You told Emily about me, and I told Rachel about you, so why didn't Rachel tell me about Higgins? I mean, that is what best friends do, right? They fucking tell each other shit."

Jenn reaches across the counter and rests her hand on Santana's forearm. Her girlfriend's touch immediately calms her anxiety, but it's not really the touch she wants right now. 

Santana glances back down the counter, but Jenn steals away her attention, saying, "You're right, San. Best friends do tell each other shit. Emily would have murdered me if she saw us together in the tabloids before I told her myself." They both laugh at this, because Emily is almost as protective over Jenn as Todd—which is, like, a whole lot. "So, maybe you guys should just sit down and talk about it. For whatever reason, Rachel might not have wanted you to know."

But that still boggles the fuck out of her, because _why_? What reason would Rachel have for not telling her about this dude? "He must be a pervert or something."

Jenn smiles crookedly before knocking down her shot in one quick gulp. "A pervert?" she says, wincing through it. 

Santana’s eyes narrow. "Did I say that out loud?"

"Yeah, kinda," Jenn says, but she's smiling like she wants to laugh. Santana smiles back, albeit a bit shakily, and then watches as Jenn hops off her stool. They share a kiss, this one a little longer than the first. Jenn's lipgloss tastes like peaches today. "Speaking of Em, I'm meeting her at a club downtown, so I'll catch you later, 'kay?"

"Tell her I said hi," Santana says with another shaky smile. 

"Will do." 

She nods and then waves when Jenn glances over her shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. She looks on for another second before shifting her eyes in the opposite direction, to where Lloyd and Rachel were sitting. They're not over there anymore, so Santana scans the dance floor, finding Cole and Henry dancing with Lloyd and Rachel. It looks like they're having a great time, which only succeeds in dampening Santana's mood even further. 

\--

Rachel's fast asleep when she gets home, so they go to a coffee shop the next afternoon before Rachel's two o'clock vocal lesson. But not Cobblestones, because Santana will never go back to that place ever again, especially if Pat still works there. 

They grab a table somewhere in the back where there's no draft every time a new customer enters the shop. Santana doesn't exactly know why they're here. Maybe as some kind of common ground, because she still hasn't asked much about Lloyd, and Rachel still hasn't offered anything up, like her arriving back from Philly with a boyfriend before telling Santana she even _liked_ someone is somehow normal. 

Maybe they're just not those sort of best friends; the ones who talk about their crushes, or trade stories about their significant others, because hell if Santana's going to talk about her dates with Jenn to Rachel. She'll ask for advice every now and then, but the intimate details Santana would usually brag about to anyone else—well, that stays between herself, Henry, and Cole nowadays. 

Rachel orders her regular—a blueberry muffin and a cup of peppermint tea—and Santana gets her coffee black. She's not really feeling up to eating right now. 

"So, it seems as if you had a nice trip," she says, instead of asking Rachel the question that's been on the forefront of her mind—like whether she and Lloyd have... _well_ —because that's invasive, even for Santana, and _she’s_ the one who usually makes it a habit of raiding her one night stand's panty draws.

Rachel looks at the table briefly and then says, "It was very enlightening. Daniel and I found this great open mic place on the first night, and not to brag or anything," she says in her bragging voice, "but if it were a competition, we would've definitely taken home first place."

Santana tries to smile but it probably looks more like she's in pain. "I didn't know Daniel could sing."

A red nail circles the rim of a tea cup, and Santana unwillingly follows Rachel's finger around and around, as if under a spell. "Well, you probably don't remember much of the first night we went to Callbacks together since you were so caught up with Angela," she says, dutifully breaking Santana's thought bubble, "but Daniel and I had sung then too."

Despite herself, Santana smirks and rubs at her cheek. "Oh, I remember that night." After all, who forgets getting the shit slapped out of them in the middle of a crowded dance floor?

"He's a very impressive vocalist. Nothing compared to the likes of Jesse, but he could give Finn or Sam a run for their money."

Rachel seems to be doing a lot of boasting about Daniel, but, "What about this Lloyd guy? How'd you find him?" Santana wonders, hoping to redirect this conversation into something actually relevant. "Because he definitely wasn't on your Facebook."

Rachel doesn't even look surprised as she blows on her hot tea. "You searched him."

"Duh."

"He doesn't have any social media," Rachel tells her, watching closely as Santana takes her first sip.

Bitter. Just the way she likes it. "I figured."

Rachel only nods with this thin smile stretched across her face. She almost looks amused, and Santana wants to say something mean, but she can't—not when it comes to Rachel. She just can't be mean to that girl anymore, not after everything that happened in high school and everything they've been through since coming to the city. 

Rachel sighs. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about him, okay?" she apologizes, but it doesn’t really sound like she’s sorry. "Is that what you want to hear, Santana? What you've been waiting for?"

"Not really," Santana mumbles, tapping at the side of her mug. "I don't want an apology, I want a reason _why_." 

It's just not like Rachel to do shit like this. She's the type to get all excited and then ramble on and on about the person she likes. At least, that's how Rachel was in high school. Sophomore and junior year, she probably talked about Finn more than herself, and that's really saying something. But when it comes to this Lloyd guy, Rachel’s been way more subdued, and admittedly, it's a little unnerving to see her this way. 

Rachel nibbles on her bottom lip and picks at her blueberry muffin. She still hasn't even taken a bite out of it, which is another odd thing. A month ago, Rachel would've gorged herself with that muffin by now. Instead, she only stares at it for a moment before softly explaining, "It just didn't seem important to mention." Here she shrugs and lifts her eyes to meet Santana's. "Every time we spoke, you were either drunk or needed advice about Jenn, so it’s not like I had very many chances anyway."

Now it's Santana's turn to feel like shit, because it's true. She's been a selfish bitch lately, wanting Rachel all to herself, and wanting everyone to hear about her stupid problems. "Rach," she murmurs, feeling like a bucket of shit. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine, Santana. It's tremendously fine," she adds, which just pretty much means the exact opposite. "In hindsight, I suppose I could've snuck it into the conversation, but—...I don't know."

Okay, so they've both been shitty friends. Rachel's been keeping secrets, and Santana's been hogging the spotlight, but now that they've had this super weird truce, hopefully things will go back to normal—at least a little bit. 

"Can I have a piece of your muffin?" Santana asks, and she's not trying to break the awkward silence, but two birds, one stone, you know?

With a crooked smile, Rachel pushes her dish to the middle of the table and then sticks a fork in the muffin. "We can split it," she says, and maybe Santana's hearing shit, but it kind of sounds like Rachel's saying,  _We'll be fine_.

So, Santana goes, "Thank you." _I'm sorry_. 

And then Rachel smiles and says, "You're welcome." _It's okay_. 

\--

"Unfortunately, everything we do has a consequence, and every consequence, a broken heart," Santana's mother, that cold-hearted bitch, once told her. "Yes, sometimes to do something you want, you have to hurt someone you care about in the process. It's an unfortunate reality we must all face."

These words echo in her head as she lies under the black sheets in bed and tugs on the birthstone tied around her neck. She's in her own bed tonight. She hasn't spent the night at Jenn's place in over two weeks. Something just didn't feel right over there. Hell, nothing seems to feel right anymore. Not even her own bed sometimes. Santana tosses and turns, and then stuffs her face into her pillow with a groan. 

Ever since April arrived, so has the rain. It falls heavy tonight, right outside Santana's window. It's even louder than the usual police sirens that wail down the Bushwick streets at around this time of night. 

The rain has been known to relax people, but for Santana there is an opposing reaction. Closing her eyes, she pulls her comforter up to her chin and tries to find peace of mind, but there's just no use. She kicks off her covers, climbs out of bed, and somehow ends up right outside of Rachel's curtain. 

Somehow. 

Without a peep, she enters her curtains and then slides in between Rachel's sheets as quietly as possible, but even so, Rachel must feel a dip in the mattress, because she opens her heavy eyes and offers Santana a sleepy smile before turning over in bed. Santana smiles back, even though Rachel can no longer see her. 

Regardless, she sleeps like a baby. 

\--

Santana learned in her Screenwriting For Dummies book that when creating a character, it's important for them to have flaws, because that's what makes them real and relatable. It's taken Santana a while to figure out what's been missing, but she thinks she finally got it. It's Jenn. She has no flaws. She's definitely not perfect— _because only Jesus is perfect_ , according to Abuela—but there's nothing weird or funky about her either. 

She excels at everything she does. She's easy to get along with. She's funny and spontaneous, and she can even express her feelings, no problem. She's fucking superwoman, and Santana just can't handle a girl like that. Nobody except Brad Pitt can, actually, but when she expresses her fears over this with Cole, the other girl only rolls her eyes and says, "Don't do this."

"Do what?" Santana asks, dragging an amp from off the back of Cole's truck. 

"Don't psych yourself out. Jenn has no issues, so you're creating an issue for her. The issue that she has no issues. It's a basic deflecting method." Annoyed at being psychoanalyzed, Santana only stares, so Cole leans her guitar case against a brick wall and explains herself, "Instead of fucking, I've been watching a lot of Dr. Phil lately, and he's really not a total quack like everyone says. Dude's smart."

First Henry thinks he can read her like a book, now Cole? _Great_. And to think, out of the goodness of her heart, Santana volunteered to be Cole's roadie and move her band shit from studio to gigs to storage places, and this is what it gets her—a fried brain rattling on about shit she learned on Dr. Phil? If Santana’s going to have to listen to this bull, at least offer her some knowledge from Oprah. 

Cole takes the amp out of Santana's hands and carefully lowers it to the ground. "You're trying to get out of something that's perfect for you, dude, but you don't even know how easy you have it. From what I've learned about you, this seems to be your first uncomplicated relationship, yeah?" 

It's a viable assumption, so Santana decides to cooperate. Obviously she brought this up so she could get some advice, so whatever. She might as well listen. 

With a sigh, Cole plops down on the amp. "You're not used to that, so you're trying to create conflict to shake things up, but why?" It's a rhetorical question, so Santana just raises her eyebrows. "Just chill and enjoy the ease, because believe moi, it won't last forever."

But maybe that's a good thing. If her relationship with Jenn lasted forever, the next extreme would probably be Santana having to move into a convent or something. "But there's just no passion. And I'm not even talking about the sex," she adds at Cole's pointed look. And it's not about the lack of sex. _Seriously_. "We don't argue, we don't cry over shit together, we don't _connect_. It's like I'm dating a friend I have nothing in common with. There's no fucking chemistry."

Cole gets back up and then shoves her guitar case into Santana's hand with a shake of her head. "I think you're overanalyzing this," she says, stepping backwards and into the gravel surrounding them. "Just sleep on it, and I'm sure you'll feel better about everything in the morning."

In her aggravation, Santana wants to hit something, but the only thing around them in this narrow alleyway is Cole's instruments and a brick wall, and with that, she'll either end up breaking something or breaking herself, so she flips Cole off instead. It doesn't lift her spirits much, but at least she doesn't have any dislocated fingers. 

\--

At the end of the day, she takes Cole's advice, and instead of doing anything rash, Santana goes to bed with Jenn on her mind. Maybe she was jumping the gun by accusing Jenn of being perfect. That's no reason to breakup with someone, so she closes her eyes and tries to relax.

Unsettled, Santana turns over in bed and ends up facing Jenn's backside. She silently watches each and every inhalation that causes Jenn's shoulders to rise and fall. Breathing deeply, Santana scoots a little closer, eyes locked to that expanse of smooth skin on the back of Jenn's neck. 

Jenn puffs out a sigh as Santana's fingers unabashedly trail under her shirt but remain at the hip. Her skin is so fucking soft, and Santana has no idea what she's doing, or how any of this is going to turn out—because Jenn has told her over and over again that she wants to wait—but who knows, maybe she changed her mind. She even hums at the contact and giggles a little before turning over, and Santana smiles to herself, because this is what she's been waiting for and she's finally going to get it, but the lips that greet her aren't Jenn's lips. Santana knows these lips, and so she breaks away, only to find none other than Rachel Berry looking back at her. 

She's a sweaty mess when she opens her eyes. It's not even a warm night, but her pillowcase is soaked, and so she drowsily crawls out of bed to take a shower for two reasons. One, she's kind of sticky, and two, she's kind of _sticky_. It's the best shower she's ever taken, not only because it calms her raging libido, but it also clears her muddled head. She was supposed to be thinking about Jenn, but her mind summons Rachel instead? If this keeps happening as much as it's been lately, Santana's going to turn into a prune from all of these fucking showers. 

She quickly dries herself off, wraps herself in a towel, and then walks into the hallway, only to find Rachel waiting outside, which—she'd be lying straight through her teeth if she said it doesn't scare the fucking crap out of her. 

You know that feeling you get when you shouldn't be scared because you know that person and they fucking live with you, but sometimes they randomly pop up out of nowhere and almost give you a heart attack? Yeah, that's how Santana feels. She even squeals and presses a hand to her chest. "Fucking _Christ_ , Rachel," she grits through clenched teeth, tightly grasping at her towel. She's actually pretty damn surprised she didn't drop it to the floor during her earlier fright. 

Rachel cracks an apologetic smile. "The pipes woke me up but now I have to pee," she quickly explains, hopping from foot to foot before practically bowling Santana over on her rush to the toilet. The door slams behind her, and Santana stands there for a moment, hysterically eyeing the door as she runs a hand through her damp hair. Rachel never ceases to confuse her, even when it's the middle of the night. 

Surrounded by darkness, Santana feels her way back to her corner of the loft and then changes quickly so that she can meet Rachel in the kitchen for a midnight snack. It's not the first time they've done this, and so after Rachel's done in the bathroom, she pulls up a stool beside Santana but doesn't grab a snack from out of the pantry. 

Santana lifts a brow and holds out her half-empty jar. "Peanut butter?" she offers lamely. 

Rachel glances at it for a moment, and then looks back up. "No thank you." 

They're both silent as a police car zooms down their block. The lights from the sirens highlight the entire loft. It's actually quite pretty, and if the lights were red and green, it'd remind Santana of Christmastime. Speaking of which, "Can you believe it's already been eight months since we've lived here?" she says, because Christmas feels like just yesterday, and Halloween feels like a week ago, and even, "High school doesn't feel like it was less than a year ago,” she adds. 

Rachel gives her a gentle smile and says, "It doesn't," which totally baffles Santana, because Rachel, master of words, can’t only offer up _two_ _words_ about a part of her life that she could probably ramble on about for hours on end. 

Santana makes a face at Rachel's odd behavior. "You're awfully quiet tonight. Something up?" 

"There's just been a lot on my mind." 

Curiosity piqued. "Yeah? Like what?" 

"School, auditions, vocal lessons," Rachel lists, and then just shrugs. "You know, the usual." 

Santana knows Rachel's lying to her, but she doesn't say so. Just more secrets to add upon the already growing list of secrets between them. Santana's always tried to be as honest as possible with Rachel, even going as far as to drunkenly share her sexual fantasies. 

The idea of that phone call still makes her want to cringe. What Rachel must think of her. Maybe if she shares something first, Rachel will find it easier to fess up whatever's going on in that eccentric mind of hers. It's a long shot, but what does she have to lose?

"Remember awhile back, when I said I was sort of an only child, and you wanted me to elaborate, but I said I would at another time?" 

With a nod, Rachel tugs on the sleeves of her sweater until it's covering her hands. "The early morning of Valentine’s Day. I remember." 

"Yeah, it's..." Her voice trails off into silence, but Rachel's still waiting for an explanation, so Santana stares down at her hands and says, "Well, she's not my blood sister or anything, but she's my stepdad's kid. We were never really close though. She's like, in her late twenties now with a family of her own." 

Rachel gives her the most insane look ever, but it's not like this is a secret or anything. She'd bring it up if people asked, but everyone just assumes she's an only child. They were never even close anyway—her step-sister was practically only a babysitter until she moved out and went to college, and now the only time Santana ever sees her is when that side of the family meets up, which is hardly ever. 

"Look, it might sound random that I'm bringing this up, but I just wanted to reiterate a point you brought up months ago." And here she hesitates, digging her spoon into the jar of peanut butter before continuing, "We're best friends, Rach, so we should be able to tell each other anything without shame or judgement, and I just wanted to tell you that." 

Rachel studies her for a long moment, and then finally just asks, "What's her name?" 

"Taylor." Santana sends Rachel a look, eyebrows furrowed curiously as she messes with the peanut butter on her spoon. "Anyway," she mumbles, before twisting the lid back onto her jar of peanut butter. "If you ever wanna talk, you know where to find me." 

"Of course. Right here," Rachel says, pressing a hand to her heart. 

Santana's laughter trails off into a sincere smile. "And people say I'm the gay one."

\--

It's been this way since Santana was a kid. When she gets an idea in her head, it's like setting a house on fire with nothing but the air in your lungs as a diffuser. But the fire only grows and grows, and by the time anything can be done about it, it's too late. 

In this scenario, the house symbolizes rationality, while the fire represents impracticality.

The house represents simple and easy, while the fire represents want and desire, quickly burning all reason and simplicity to the ground. What Santana wants is in no way simple. Sometimes she can't even admit it to herself. But then she sees Rachel putting on a dress through the cracks of her curtain, and Santana realizes Rachel's not dressing up for her. More than anything, she wants Rachel to dress up for her. Not for Lloyd or Daniel, or anyone else, for that matter. It may be her territorial instincts kicking in, or maybe it's simply the plain fact she always wants what she can't have. 

Rachel is off limits. Rachel is untouchable. But Rachel is right there, and she is Santana's best friend, so how untouchable can she be, really? What would she do, if Santana were to make a move? Would she answer back? How would she respond? They've joked about it, and teased, and flirted, but what if it were to happen for real? 

But these are only just thoughts, because as Rachel gets dressed for her boyfriend, Santana's girlfriend is waiting for her in Central Park. There's this new band playing by some bird poop statue, and Jenn says they _absolutely must go_. The lead singer is one of her close friends, and he's been trying to make a name for himself in the industry. Apparently, if Jenn shows up, it would be a big deal for the group and their future. 

But that's not much of a concern for Santana. What's worrying her is that this will be the first time she and Jenn are stepping out together as an official couple, and that might not have been a big deal if Jenn was a big fat nobody, but this is Jenn Malone, Princess of Manhattan, that she's dating, so yeah, it's kind of fucking important, which means it wouldn't exactly look good if Santana arrived late. 

"I'm heading out, Rach," Santana calls over her shoulder as she grabs a light jacket from off the coat rack. 

Rachel peeks out from her curtain, half undressed still, and smiles like the sun was made just for her. But then again, Rachel always smiles like that. "Although you probably don't need it, good luck anyway," she says, because even though Santana hasn't told Rachel anything about this being _the first official outing_ , Rachel knows anyway. She keeps tabs on stuff like that, because she cares, and Santana doesn't think it’s possible to ever know a more loving person in her life. Not like her best friend. Not like Rachel Berry. 

She looks at Rachel for another second too long before clearing her throat and walking out.

\--

The concert is a total bust, and the group sucks so much ass. Santana would know. She's heard enough talent and enough schmucks in her days as a glee clubber to know the difference. Their backup band at McKinley was a million times better, and don't even get her started on the lead singer's croaky voice. God, Santana's kind of embarrassed for Jenn through association. 

But they stay and listen anyway as the crowd wanes out once they catch on that, yeah, music is not supposed to sound like this. Jenn's smile is strained, because the cameras are right on her, but Santana doesn't give a fuck. She scowls. Hard. It doesn't matter to her what the tabloids will say. Fuck them. Maybe they'll pin her as a bad girl rather than a bitch, although those things tend to go hand-in-hand these days, so whatever. 

The last song finally rings out, and Jenn squeezes Santana's hand with a little tug, which pretty much means they can get the hell out of here now. Thank God. 

It's a chilly day, and there's rain in the forecast. There's already an overcast, and it's probably about to start pouring at any moment now, so she leads Jenn out of the withering crowd of tone deaf burnouts and toward the streets where they can catch a cab back to Jenn's place. 

She's just about to hail a taxi when a woman steps up to them with an arched eyebrow and a curious smile. She looks to be in her mid-thirties, and she’s wearing a giant fur coat with black leather boots. A definite MILF, as Puck would say.

"Excuse me, do I know you from somewhere?" she asks, and this usually wouldn't be too out of the ordinary, but the question is being aimed at Santana—which. "I don't know why, but I just have this crazy feeling I've seen you before." 

Santana stares at the woman, trying to place her, but nope—this lady doesn’t ring bell. Taking Santana’s hand, Jenn steps forward with a subdued smile and says, "I’m sorry, ma’am, I think you might have the wrong pers—"

"Do you watch lesbian porn?" Santana blurts, before really even thinking it through, but she means it as a joke, really. She intends no harm behind it at all, and it's also kind of funny, because hey, it's not like people can't recognize her from online considering she _does_ have a sex tape out there.

Anyone else back from McKinley would laugh at this, knowing the entire story, but the woman only looks at Santana in bewildered silence before saying, "Um, no I don't think that's it. You probably just have one of those faces." And then she hurriedly walks off without looking back, so Santana shrugs a shoulder, expecting all of this to be over and done with. 

Except no. 

Jenn makes a face and says, "You were joking, right? You've never actually done porn before, have you?"

Santana doesn't expect to feel as taken aback as she does by the question, but it's really not even that—it's the way Jenn asks it, her nose all scrunched up in mild disgust and shock, her eyes all squinted and judgemental. Santana wants to cower away from that look, because it reminds her way too much of her abuela. 

It reminds her of the shame she felt after being banned from all future family gatherings and holidays and events. It reminds her of her rejection, and that she's never good enough. Not for her abuela, not for Brittany, not for Quinn—not even for any of those stupid boys she dated back in high school. 

But Santana doesn't cower away. She's definitely not proud of the tape, but she's not going to let Little Miss Perfect Jenn Malone—Princess of Manhattan, who never does anything wrong—let her feel ashamed for owning and flaunting her sexuality. "It was a sex tape that my ex and I made in high school," Santana explains with a half shrug. "Long story short, fame was my mistress, and she thought it would make me a celebrity like Kim Kardashian if it got enough publicity. Thank God, it got none, but it's out there, so if—"

"So if anybody ever got their hands on this, they'd link it back to me and see my girlfriend getting freaky with somebody else," Jenn says, her tone not at all cheery. Not even close. "Nice, Santana. _Real_ nice."

Well. 

Honestly, Santana actually hadn't thought about that beforehand. And by the look on Jenn's face, she doesn't look very happy about it. 

When Santana had told Cole that she and Jenn never get into arguments, and that it was something she craves in a healthy relationship, she didn't mean an argument like _this_. She meant little bouts over disagreements concerning politics, or debates over which boy band was better—*NSync or Backstreet Boys. Not an argument on the side of the fucking street over a sex tape that could potentially tarnish Jenn's silky smooth reputation. 

Santana can feel the rage boiling in her blood, but she tampers it down. Her anger management teacher would be so pleased right now. "If you wanted a girlfriend who's not an ex-porn star that constantly craves sex, then I'm sorry, Jenn, but you picked the wrong chick." 

She hates to admit it, but maybe Todd was right. The first time Santana laid eyes on Jenn, he clearly warned her: _No offense, but you're not really her type_ , he’d said, but at the time, it sounded stupid. Now, finally, Santana thinks she knows what he meant by that. She had originally thought Todd was basing this opinion solely on looks, but nope—he meant that she's not Jenn's type, _at all_. 

While Santana's used to bedding women left and right without a care in the world, Jenn is convinced they should wait for that perfect moment to _make love_. While Santana doesn't see what the big deal is about a sex tape, Jenn looks totally scandalized. There's no balance here, and Santana's starting to think she was right about what she told Cole. 

She just can’t be with someone who can look at her like that, but then Jenn softens her stony expression and finally reels in her crazy with a deep breath. She smiles through her panic and runs a hand down Santana's bicep before bringing her closer. They stand silently in the middle of the busy sidewalk for a moment, and Santana can just see Jenn’s mind working.

She peeks up at Santana eventually and says, "Listen, I'm sorry if I might be freaking out a little bit. It's—well, I've never dated anyone who's made a sex tape before, one that's actually out there online, but hey, that's beside the point." She cups Santana's chin to grasp her full attention, and Santana wants to be difficult and look away, but Jenn's giving her that pouty look, and _fuck_. "What I just got out of this conversation is that we don't really talk about our pasts that much, and I don't know, maybe it'd be fun to share stories of high school—you know, the good times, the bad times..."

 _Oh boy_. High school. Santana grimaces. That's going to be a long ass conversation. 

\--

Cole spends half of her time in a high and the other half in the library, under her own free will. Sometimes Santana forgets how smart Cole is, but then she surprises Santana with a Shakespearean quote like, “Life is a tale told by an idiot,” and it really gets Santana thinking about what idiot is telling her life’s tale, because it's definitely gone off track more than a couple times over the last few years. 

Maybe everything that's happened is just leading her to the place she should've been all along. Never in Santana's wildest dreams would she have imagined herself in New York, shacking it up with the Wonder Twins, working as a bartender at a lesbian nightclub at only nineteen, and to top it all off, she's best friends with Rachel Berry of all people. 

This isn't how she imagined her future, but now, instead of imagining it, she's living it, and she wouldn't want it any other way. She could've done what her father wanted and went to his alma mater to study pre-med. Santana could've went to Harvard and gotten a degree in law like her mother wanted. Lord knows she had the grades to make it happen. She has the intelligence, the quick wit, the drive to succeed. 

She could've done it all if she really wanted to. But that's the tricky thing with some desires. You can't always choose what you want to want. Sometimes your desires are right there, baiting and waiting for you. Other times, they're solely off limits. But that only makes Santana want it more. When something you want but can't have is dangled enticingly in front of your face day after day, night after night, but all you can do is watch and imagine, it'll drive you insane until all you can do is reach out and touch. 

Except there's one problem—Santana's unsure of what, or _who_ , she wants anymore. Everything, and _everyone_ , seems to be off limits these days.

Santana tries to keep herself distracted with her screenplays, or else the thought that she could make Rachel feel better than any guy ever could will creep into her mind, and—no, she can't be having thoughts like that. 

Henry's too busy shopping for his penguin suit with Lawrence today, so Santana stops by Cole's place. Despite Cole's messy style, her house is always nice and tidy, and so Santana falls back against Cole's saggy couch before asking the 'hypothetical' question that's been on her mind for a few days now. 

"So, I have this friend who has a friend who's been thinking about their friend as more than a friend lately." Santana winces, because she couldn't have made that more complicated even if she tried. "But only in the physical sense," she adds after a moment of hesitation. 

Cole stops grinding her weed for a moment to peek up at Santana curiously. "The physical sense," she muses, pursing her lips. "As in your friend's friend wants to exercise with them?"

"Well, okay. Not physically, per se," Santana mutters, fiddling with her phone. " _Sexually_."

Cole's expression sharpens into a teasing grin as she places her jar of weed on the armrest of her chair and then leans forward. "Santana," she says, resting her elbows on her legs. "Let's just grow a pair and admit that we're both horny messes."

"I don't know what you're—"

"The hell you don't," Cole scoffs. "You're indirectly projecting your desires onto a second party that parallels the appearance of your girlfriend."

Santana twitches. "You've been watching too much Dr. Phil."

"And you're hard up for Rachel because Jenn isn't putting out."

It's not even the dirtiest thing Cole's ever said to her about this, but Santana stills anyway—mostly at the damn accuracy of Cole's insinuation. Nevertheless, she plays dumb. "Hard up? For _Rachel_?"

"Dude."

"Okay, fine. Whatever."

It's actually sad how fast she gives in, but Cole doesn't look phased. "She's hot."

Like Santana doesn't already know that. "Yeah," she agrees. 

"I mean," Cole trails off, and then says, " _Super_ hot."

"Whatever."

"But she's also taken, and if I remember correctly, so are you."

Her palms are sweaty, so Santana wipes them on her jeans and then shoots a glare in Cole's direction. "Fuck you," she says, but there's not much behind it. 

"Can't. You have a girlfriend," Cole teases, and it's just _awesome_ Cole reminds her of these things, because darn, she almost forgot—it's not like Jenn doesn't text her almost every two hours. Cole picks up the clear jar again and inspects her weed with a critical eye. "Ironically, I remember having almost this exact same conversation with you months ago, but you said, and I quote, _I can't think of anything I'd rather do least than have sex with Rachel_ , end quote."

"That still holds true," Santana defends. "Just in a different context."

"How so?"

"Well, before it was—honestly, I was kinda grossed out by the idea. I mean, she was like my little sister." Santana cringes at the mild incest-y implication, but that hardly applies here. Rachel's not really her sister, and she actually can't even remember an occasion where Rachel has referred to her as such. "But now, it's just—I'd still never go there. Like, physically. In my mind, sure. In my fantasies and dreams—okay, whatever. But in _real life_? I can't see that ever fucking happening, for multiple reasons."

Distracted, Cole fishes out a nugget and then crushes it between her fingers. "What reasons?"

"It just wouldn't happen. She's—it wouldn't happen, okay?" Santana exasperates, kicking off her shoes so that she can pull her knees into her chest. "Even after that time she tried to fuck me, it would still never—"

"Wait, wait, fucking wait. Rewind that shit, please," Cole instructs, eyes wider than saucers, and oh, _now_ Santana’s got her attention. "Rachel tried to fuck you?"

Santana can feel her palms getting clammy again. "She was drunk and had just been rejected from yet another show. It would've been straight up wrong to go there with her. She was all vulnerable and shit." Cole gives Santana this careful look, practically dissecting her with those dark eyes of hers, and so Santana can only do what she does best. She gets defensive. "Shut up."

But Cole's not thrown at all. "You really care about her, huh?"

"More than I wanna fuck her, yeah—which fucking Christ," Santana scoffs, squeezing the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Kill me now."

Cole makes a small noise of disapproval. "See, I would totally help you out there, but I don't think Rachel would appreciate it. The killing, I mean. Not the fucking. Or both, perhaps."

Santana throws a shoe at her. "Shut up, Cole."


	2. but i ascend and serve my feverish need

Rachel's bringing him over for dinner tonight, and Santana can't really say she's jumping out of her seat to hash it out with the lucky guy. To even out the playing field, she invites Jenn, mostly as a buffer to smooth things over just in case this Lloyd dude is as socially inept as his dumb name entails. 

Kurt was supposed to join them, but he bails at the last minute because of some fashion crisis at his job—which is always his excuse when he doesn't feel like meeting new people—so that just leaves Santana and Jenn, and Rachel and Lloyd, and for Christ's fucking sake, Santana already knows this evening is not going to end well, especially when Rachel burns the spaghetti on the stove right before their guests' arrival. And like, who fucking burns spaghetti?

Santana thinks it's an omen that this whole double dinner date (or whatever the hell it is they're doing) shouldn't happen—that they should postpone, or do this another time, or maybe never even at all—if Santana had it her way, at least. Rachel waves Santana off, telling her that she's being silly, because nowadays it seems everything she says is silly. Rachel never wants to take her seriously anymore, and Santana's not yet sure if it's because she might actually be silly, much like this whole Lloyd dinner date fiasco. 

Santana already knows tonight’s going to suck, but when there's a knock on the door and Rachel excitedly makes her way out of the kitchen to let Lloyd Higgins in, there is not a fucking thing Santana can do to stop this shit storm from happening. 

Lloyd Higgins turns out not to be a _total_ loser. He's attractive, has a full head of hair, and he can speak English, so Santana supposes he passes the first round. Next round is body odor, problem solving skills, and the ability to suggest red or white wine based on Rachel's mood. The latter will probably be the hardest test of all—it took Santana almost five months to be able to tell that Rachel likes red wine when she's feeling giddy, and white wine when she's feeling shitty. 

That kind of perspective doesn't come overnight to just anyone—well, that's if you're not Lloyd Higgins, of course, because without even a second of thought, he reaches for the red wine on the kitchen counter and pours Rachel half a glass, which—is this kid even allowed to drink yet? Santana and Rachel aren't allowed either, sure, but he's _seventeen_. How is this kid so damn cultured already?  

Rachel catches Santana's eye from across the kitchen to send her a wink, and Santana feels an unsettling shiver flow down her spine—although that could probably just be from the drafty air-conditioning vents. 

Jenn appears only ten minutes later, and Santana doesn't think she's ever been happier to see her smiling face. She should probably feel guilty for using her own girlfriend as a buffer, but Rachel's not really giving her any other choice here. 

Throughout the entire dinner, Rachel makes goo goo eyes at Lloyd Higgins and brags about Lloyd Higgin's accomplishments. "He was valedictorian and graduated at the top of his class," Rachel says, and she even strokes Lloyd Higgin's damn knee underneath the table. 

(It was only a month ago Rachel would make goo goo eyes at Santana over the table, and fuss over every single thing she ate for dinner, and brag about how hard she was working at trying to turn over a new leaf. It was only a month ago when their friendship was all Rachel seemingly thought about, but _oh_ , how the tables have turned.)

Granted, Jenn's hand is a little ways higher on Santana's thigh than Rachel's hand is on Lloyd's leg, but Santana just can't get over the fact that Rachel is seriously into this sophisticated bum. He's practically Finn, only a million times smarter, with a shaggy beard—so maybe that's why Santana dislikes him so much. She still can't fucking stand that giant stepping stool. 

They make small talk, because that's what people do at these functions, right? So, even though Santana would rather stab herself in the eye with a fork, she listens on in complete and utter boredom as Lloyd talks about his academics and how he's studying to become a philosopher—like, seriously, can you spell unemployment? 

Santana nods along and tries to smile sincerely, but it's pretty obvious Rachel can see right through her crap by the curious gleam in her eyes. Rachel can always see right through her, so what's even the use in pretending she gives a shit about this dinner? 

Jenn squeezes Santana's hand in her own and then grins at her before asking Lloyd yet another question about Plato or some shit, and _right_ , that's why. Jenn might be out of Santana's league when it comes to self-control, but she's a nice girl, so Santana's not going to ruin the night by being a sourpuss. That'd be no fair to her girlfriend. 

 _Girlfriend_ —it still sounds so weird to say in her head. 

Anyway. Because they're bored, and because the only people talking seem to be Jenn and Lloyd, Rachel suggests they play this card game Henry bought Kurt for Christmas as a way to help them learn more about each other. The game was made for significant others, testing who knows whom better, but Santana's only been dating Jenn for like, a month and a half now, and who knows how long Rachel's known Lloyd. Half a month, maybe? 

Yeah, this should be fun. And by fun, she means horrible.

So the rules: somebody asks a question, but if the askee doesn't know, a player from the other team can try to answer it and steal their points. The game is pretty damn simple, but it turns out everyone fucking sucks because nobody knows shit about each other—well, nobody except for Santana and Rachel, who probably know more about each other than any other two people in New York. But, _duh_. They're best friends. Of course they're going to know everything about each other. 

Every time it's Lloyd's turn to answer a question about Rachel, Santana ends up stealing their points, and every time it's Jenn's turn to answer a question about Santana, Rachel gets all haughty and gives Jenn this look before answering the question like it's something everyone should know. Santana would be annoyed if it wasn't so damn hilarious. But it's only a game, so Jenn just glances at Rachel with a tight-lipped smile, and Lloyd high-fives his girlfriend for stealing their points. 

The game carries on this way for the longest time until they get to the black cards, and Rachel and Santana prove to even know the intimate shit about each other, which totally raise some eyebrows. Santana can just feel Jenn stiffening beside her during the speed round when Lloyd picks a black card from the deck and asks her, "Does Santana have any hidden birthmarks on her body, and if so, where?"

Blushing profusely, Jenn shrugs a shoulder before admitting, "I...I don't actually know."

"It's on her left butt cheek," Rachel says flippantly, and Santana feels her face heat as she shoots Rachel a look, but the other girl is too busy eyeing Jenn over the rim of her wine glass to really take much notice.

Santana would've tried to jump across the coffee table to cover Rachel's mouth with her hand, but Rachel always licks Santana's palm when she does that, which probably just would've made Jenn even more pissy. 

Eyes narrowed, Jenn looks between Rachel and Santana for a moment. "How did—" she starts, lifting a suspicious brow as she looks only to Rachel now. "Okay, how could you _possibly_ know that?" 

Santana's not really enjoying this tension, so she speaks up for her roommate, hesitantly explaining, "We...might've seen each other naked on more than one occasion." Jenn only stares at her, awaiting an explanation, so Santana raises her hands in mock surrender. "Oh, c'mon, we live in the same apartment, and there are no doors. It's bound to happen," she says, laughing a little awkwardly, but Rachel's kind of tipsy now and only giggles as she continues to play with the leather band around Lloyd's wrist. 

Santana's eyes linger there for a moment, but _so not the issue right now_. 

"I've seen more than my fair share of Kurt too, let me tell you, which wasn’t pretty,” but wait, that’s a lie. “Well, it was pretty, but not _my_ kinda pretty."  

Jenn takes this in stride with pursed lips. "Fine, whatever," she mutters under her breath, scooting just a fraction closer to Santana, practically crawling into her lap now. Not that Santana minds, but _really_?

This isn't how speed round is supposed to go at all. It's taking for fucking ever, so Lloyd picks up another black card and asks Jenn, "Who was Santana's girlfriend before you?"

Jenn smiles confidently. "Cole, right?"

"Brittany," Rachel corrects automatically, and Santana smiles weakly as she tries to dodge the unwavering glare being directed her way. She never told Jenn about Brittany, but granted, she never tells _anyone_ about Brittany, so it's really nothing personal. 

"Who's Brittany?" Jenn asks her, playing with Santana fingers, yet a little more aggressively than she usually does. 

"Just an ex," she says, because it's a long fucking story, and not one she feels like delving into tonight of all nights. 

Rachel looks between them before resting her doleful, understanding eyes on Santana, and Santana stares back for a beat before remembering her girlfriend is still right beside her. Jealousy and alcohol are never a good mix, so she takes a deep breath to clear her mind and then offers to clean the coffee table of all their junk. 

On her way to the kitchen, light footsteps pitter patter behind her, and she doesn't even have to turn around to know that it's Rachel. It's her scent. The heaviness in her steps. The pattern of her breathing. 

"Are you okay?" Rachel asks, and Santana is really starting to get sick of that question because she's _fine_. She's over Brittany. She's over their breakup. She's over everything. 

"I'm perfect," she says, dumping their dishes into the sink, and then Rachel appears beside her with a plate, placing it into the sink too. Santana would shift closer down the counter and take Rachel's hand, because it's what she always does, and it never means anything more, but she has a feeling Lloyd and Jenn are still watching them. "Fun game, huh?"

"I’ve never been more entertained in my entire existence," Rachel says flatly, but there's a teasing gleam in her eyes, so Santana smiles with a shake of her head as she grabs another can of beer from the fridge. Maybe she should more closely watch her alcohol intake tonight, but there's just too much going through her head right now.

After a moment of just watching her, Rachel pours herself another glass of wine, practically matching Santana's intake, which—well, the girl is already a lightweight, but that's okay. 

Santana will watch over her. 

\--

It's another half hour before Lloyd and Jenn finally make a move to leave. Jenn takes Santana out into the stairwell and kisses her like she means it, leaving Santana all hot and bothered against the wall as she watches Jenn descend the steps. She runs a hand through her messy hair and tries to wipe the smudged lipstick off of her neck before heading back inside, only to find Rachel giving Lloyd a sweet kiss on the cheek. 

Santana can't even say why she's annoyed by that, but she is, and her annoyance is warranted. At least she and Jenn took their hanky panky away from wandering eyes, but whatever, because Higgins is gone a few minutes later anyway, and when Rachel closes the door behind him, Santana shakes her head with a wry smile. "Is it just me, or was tonight incredibly bizarre?" she wonders, wiping down a plate before sticking it in the dish rack. 

"We're all pretty bizarre," Rachel says, hip-checking Santana on her way to the trash can. "Some of us are just better at hiding it, that's all."

"Okay, Breakfast Club," she drawls with a roll of her eyes, turning around and then leaning up against the counter. "But seriously. Bizarre, right?"

Rachel folds her arms over her chest and rests her lower back against the counter parallel to where Santana's standing. After a moment, she nods in agreement. "Yeah, actually. Pretty bizarre."

"Why?"

She's asking the hard questions, but Rachel answers them like a champ, responding, "Well, it's always just been us, but now—it's them too."

Santana digests this, but she's not really sure she likes the taste. "Okay, can I say one mean thing about Lloyd?" she asks, because she knows Rachel is always a good sport about this kind of stuff, and Jesus, she needs to get this off her chest. 

Tilting her head, Rachel seems to weigh her options. "Only if I can say one mean thing about Jenn."

"Give me your worse," she kids, but in reality, it'd actually be nice to hear something negative about her perfect girlfriend for once. "Higgins' beard looks like he hasn't washed it in two weeks. Maybe you should buy him a gorilla to pick out the ants that are surely chillaxing in that jungle he calls facial hair."

Rachel giggles and then says, "Jenn is severely lacking in her upper regions, but if you enjoy squeezing grapes, I don't blame you one bit. Wine has to come from somewhere, after all."

Santana scoffs through a laugh. " _Rach._ "

"What? It's true," Rachel laughs, smiling widely, but Santana can only stare, mouth agape, because that was uncharacteristically vicious of Rachel, and hot damn—Santana couldn't be any more turned on than she is right now by Rachel's bitchy comeback. 

"Although I'm a self-proclaimed ass girl, I _do_ like myself a nice rack," Santana easily agrees, suggestively eyeing up Rachel's chest, but Rachel only laughs some more, the same thing she always does whenever Santana flirts with her. She should be used to it by now, but for once, _just once_ , she wishes Rachel would do something other than laugh at her.

Santana wonders what would happen if she was actually taken seriously, for once. 

\--

Tonight, her corner of the apartment feels much lonelier than usual. Tonight, there's this emptiness in her chest. Even though Rachel is back from Philly, and she'll be here for forever, maybe, Santana still can't quite shake off the illusion that she's in this apartment alone. 

It's so quiet. She doesn't move a muscle and waits for the wooden floors to creak, the pipes to squeak. But nothing. It almost feels as if it's the end of March again, when Kurt was hardly ever home and Santana was pretty much always here whenever Jenn was in Naples, or hanging out with her friends, or off doing volunteer work in the community. She hated those nights back then, and just the reminder of them has Santana breathing heavily as she tosses and turns in bed like a fucking turtle with a slippery shell. 

Her sheets are tangled all around her ankles. In frustration, she furiously kicks them off with a growl. _Fuck_. Why is she so angry all of a sudden? There's a part of her that's missing, which is totally throwing everything off balance. What's missing? 

What's fucking missing? 

She breathes out a sigh and stuffs her face into her pillow, but it's so uncomfortable that she ends up throwing it to the ground a moment later. She shifts restlessly on top of her bare mattress for another five minutes until she just can't take it anymore. Whatever it is she's craving, she won't find it here on this lumpy mattress. 

Her hazy mind is swirling with thoughts that she shouldn't be having as she sits up and wipes away a sweaty strand of hair from off her forehead. After tonight, after that stupid game they played, Santana wonders why no one has ever understood her like Rachel does—why no one's been able to break down her walls ever since Brittany forced her to build them back up again. But it's not something she wants to give much thought to tonight, and so Santana rolls out of bed before tugging on a pair of shorts and some socks. 

Her equilibrium is off as she creeps past the kitchen and then in front of the window that leads to the fire escape. It's raining way too hard for her to step outside for some fresh air, so she focuses on the raindrops as they race each other down the glass, bumping together and becoming one. 

If raindrops were people, life would be so much simpler. Finding _the one_ wouldn't be like a game of pinball—bumping from wall to wall, trying to find a place to belong—but rather a quick absorption of where you're supposed to be, no questions asked, no answers questioned. 

Santana's so lost in her thoughts she doesn't even hear the light footsteps patting up behind her until two hands slip around her waist and small, nimble fingers dig into her sides. Rachel startles her at first, but then a chin rests on Santana's shoulder, and the words, "It's just me," are whispered into her ear, so Santana allows herself to relax again. "What're you doing up so late?"

Tonight, she's feeling oddly antsy, uncontrollable, wild, yet hesitant and tentative at the same time, a conflicting contrast of emotions that cause Santana to resist her usual temptations when it comes to Rachel because of the fact she has a girlfriend, one who claims to love her. "I don't know," she says, tipping her head to rest her cheek against Rachel's. "I guess it's just our new thing." 

She can feel Rachel smiling but then a pair of hands squeeze Santana's waist tight before letting go completely. Rachel side-eyes her strangely and says, "You've been off lately."

"You've noticed."

"Of course I've noticed," Rachel says, brushing her messy bangs to the side. "Santana, you're my—"

"You're what?" she interrupts, and then clears her throat, unreasonably agitated. "Not your best friend, because all you do is hang out with Lloyd now. At least when I started dating Jenn, I still made time for us." Santana knows she's nitpicking, and that's really no fair to Rachel, but she feels like shit tonight, and misery loves company, after all.

Rachel doesn't say anything for a long moment, so Santana finally looks over to find her smirking in amusement. "Green really isn't your color, Santana," she kids lightly. 

"Really, because I think I look pretty damn sexy in green, don't you?" Santana wonders, looking for a distinct reaction, because a month ago, there used to be _something_ there, but Rachel only laughs at her. 

Again.

Santana’s upper lip twitches. She _knows_ she didn't imagine it—all the times Rachel would look at her just a little too long to be considered normal. Santana didn't know what it was back then, and she didn't really care—too caught up with Brittany and then Angela and then Cole and then Quinn—but now she thinks she's willing to find out. She _wants_ to find out, if only to extinguish her curiosity—nothing more. 

"Remember when you said you find me attractive?" she prompts, leaning up against the windowsill. "That still true?"

Distracted, Rachel presses a hand to the cold window and watches the raindrops fall. "You're beautiful, Santana. No one can take that away from you."

"Yeah, but—just humor me for a sec, Rach, okay?" Santana shuffles awkwardly and waits for Rachel to actually look her in the eye. She doesn't know why this is so important all of a sudden, but _it is_. She can't be the only one feeling this inexplicable attraction, so again, she asks, "You're attracted to me, right?"

"Santana, I just said—"

"Rachel."

" _Yes_ ," she blurts, and then smiles shakily as her cheeks turn ruddy. "Fine, yeah. I'm attracted to you, but what does that matter?" She lifts a hand and shrugs, like it's no big deal, but— _fuck, this is big_. For a while, Santana was thinking that she's this crazy lesbian who has been inappropriately thinking about her straight-ish roommate, but to know that Rachel not only finds her attractive but _is attracted to her_ —that's just...well, it would be totally enlightening if Rachel didn't have to ruin the moment by saying, "Your ego isn't big enough already, you need me to inflate it too?" She bows her head in embarrassment, but Santana only smiles in amusement, causing Rachel to become even more defensive. "What in heaven's name is so gosh darn funny, Santana?"

There's a lot that's funny right now, but mostly this: "You're the only one who knew about the birthmark on my ass," Santana says, slowly, and although it might sound random, truth be told, she's been thinking about it for quite some time now. All damn night, actually. 

But she'd be lying if she said she hasn't noticed the same things about Rachel recently. The way she slowly licks her lips when she's thinking deeply about something important. Or how she ruffles her bangs when she's embarrassed or nervous. Or the way she folds her hands into fists and then clenches them hard when she's frustrated—and shit, Santana just got an insane mental image of Rachel's hand ravelled in her dark silky hair, yelling for Santana to stop playing around and just fucking _do it_ already.

Santana swallows thickly, and then looks away from the window to find Rachel staring straight at her, eyes squinted and calculating. 

"You would've had to look for longer than a few seconds to have noticed that birthmark," Santana adds, because the mark is no big splat on her ass. It's like, this tiny mole. Santana doubts Brittany's even seen it the mole is that small, and Brittany's seen _everything_. 

Rachel only narrows her eyes further. "I don't know what you're trying to insinuate, Santana, but—"

"Oh, c'mon, Rachel," Santana half laughs, half groans. Biting down on her lower lip, she shifts sideways and takes a step, waiting to see if Rachel will move away—testing her, really. But Rachel stays right where she is, painfully still. The only movement is in her face—nostrils flare, a lip twitches—and Santana watches every single reaction closely. "You want me, I want you," she almost whispers, looking back and forth between Rachel's expressive brown eyes. They're practically glossy now, shining against the light from the lampposts outside, and Santana revels in Rachel's quivering lips as she says, "And you know it, Rach, so why are we dancing around each other pretending as if there's nothing he—" 

She'd like to say she sees it coming, but Rachel's lips shut Santana up before she even has a chance to finish her sentence—and when Rachel kisses her, Santana has exactly two thoughts, and neither of them include Jenn. The first one is— _wow, Rachel's lips are just as soft as I remember_ —and the second: _I wonder how far she'll let me take this kiss._   

Those plump lips, the ones Santana's been unwillingly dreaming of kissing for a month, crush hard against hers, and after the initial shock wears off, Santana kisses her back, soft and tentative, sucking in Rachel's bottom lip and teasing it with her tongue as her hand flies into Rachel's hair, threading deep into her curls. 

Everything disappears. Every _one_ disappears—Jenn, Lloyd, Brittany, Finn, Quinn, Daniel, Cole. Her worries, fears, problems. Her doubts, the guilt, the consequences. Those disappear too, all with one kiss.

Admittedly, this reminds Santana of their first kiss on New Years Eve—how it had started off so tentative, but then quickly grew deeper and more passionate as the seconds ticked away. Back then, afraid of what it meant, Santana had broken off the kiss before it could get any more heated, but tonight, thankfully, she doesn't have that kind of resolve. 

Rachel moans into Santana's mouth, pressing her body even closer—so close Santana can barely believe this is actually happening. But then a rumble of thunder has Santana reluctantly pulling away with a deep breath and an arched brow. "What about Lloyd?"

Rachel's heavy eyes remain on Santana's lips. "Fuck Lloyd,” she breathes, and it doesn’t occur to Santana until much later that Rachel doesn’t even inquire about Jenn in return.

At night, even the worst of sins are overshadowed by darkness, and with the heavy rainfall surrounding them, there's no room for guilt nor objection. It'll whisper but not loud enough to hear. Either Santana ignores it, or the sound never even makes it through because she's so caught up in Rachel's hand, sliding across her waist and then down to her hips, bringing her even closer. The darkness, it eggs her on, convinces her to forget all about _what's-her-name_ , because right now, in this moment, all that matters is Rachel. 

She recaptures Rachel's lips a second later, unable to help herself. It's astounding: the fact that she's lived with this gorgeous woman for almost over a year and has resisted for this long. Santana thinks that kind of self-control deserves an award—or perhaps a taste of what she's been missing out on this entire time.

They stay close as Rachel starts walking her backwards, first against a wall, and then towards her corner of the loft. Santana keeps her eyes clenched shut and allows herself to get lost in their sloppy kisses as her steps lead her towards Rachel’s room. 

Somehow, it scares her what's behind Rachel’s curtain. It's no mystery what's in there—sheets, pillows, a bed, a headboard, maybe a blanket or two—but what's waiting for them is a completely different story. Santana's made some pretty dumb mistakes in her life. She's stolen, cheated, gotten into fights, but what she's about to do tonight may actually top the list of her multitude of fuck-ups. 

Months ago, after her breakup with Brittany, Santana honestly didn't believe anyone could ever love her again, but now there's a girl who does, and Santana's easily about to throw all of that away without a care in the world, all for one night and some hot sex. 

Her shaky hand rests on top of Rachel's hip, fingertips skating over her thin nightshirt. She settles on top of Rachel, straddling her hips and trapping her against the bed. Santana shifts so that her face is near Rachel's neck as she sucks a trail under her chin and toward her collarbone. Rachel exhales and places a hand near Santana’s waist, her palm curling tightly as she brings Santana closer.

It's sad and pathetic—how she can't even wait it out. Santana knows she's no saint, but she's tried her best, so shouldn't that be enough? Will anything in her life ever be enough? She's always been enough for Rachel, even when they would drive each other up a fucking wall. They've always been each other's enough, despite Jenn's need for Santana to wait for her. 

Santana's never been one for restraint, and if Jenn's not going to give it to her, Santana will get it from someone else, in whatever form or person or best friend she can find. She's desperate for contact and a touch between her thighs and a kiss that leads to more than a cutesy pat on the ass and a door in her face. She's not sure if she's more lightheaded by Rachel's sweet scent, or the three cans of beer she had tonight, but whatever it is, she can't stop, and she really doesn't want to.

Rachel shivers, and then rests her hand over Santana's, lacing their fingers together. "Santana, what...what are we doing?" she asks, stopping her movements completely. 

Santana stills. Her throat bobs as she swallows thickly. "I...don't know," she murmurs into Rachel's neck, eyes closed shut as she tries not to think. "I really have no idea."

Rachel blinks up at her, eyes wide and curious, but Santana just continues to slowly rub her thumb in tiny circles against Rachel's smooth hip. Rachel glances down but she doesn't say anything, just watches Santana's hand against her skin and exhales at the touch. Santana can almost see the thoughts running through Rachel's mind as she continues to touch her, albeit innocently, yet there's still a reaction, still an affect to some degree. After a long moment, Rachel's brown eyes glisten wetly and fall to Santana's lips as she slides Santana's hand down to the base of her stomach. 

Santana flutters her eyelids shut against the feeling. "Rach," she stammers, cheeks growing hot. "I have to...I just really need—"

"What do you need, Santana?" Rachel asks, tracing the shape of Santana's hand with her fingertips.

Santana presses even closer, leans into Rachel's ear to whisper, "I want you so badly. I've been thinking about this nonstop—being with you like this—and it's driving me fucking insane."

Rachel looks up at her with those imploring brown eyes for a painfully long moment and tries to dissect Santana's intentions with nothing but a careful look. Santana finds herself exhaling raggedly when Rachel purposefully shifts Santana's hand down lower until it's lightly skimming the waistband of her shorts. Santana's heart races at the look on Rachel's face—her eyelids are heavy, mouth hanging open as puffs of air escape from her chest, eyebrows knitted together in concentration, and maybe even some nervous anxiety is in her expression as well. 

Santana pushes up on to her elbow and hunches over so that she's fully on top of her best friend. It happens slowly, so slowly—an arm wraps around her neck, pulling her down, and even though it happens slowly, Santana's still caught off guard by how hard her stomach clenches in nervous anticipation. But then Rachel smirks, sort of like she knows exactly what Santana's been thinking for the last few minutes—days, months even—and all of the complexities and expectations and fears immediately flow away. 

Their bare legs tangle on top of the sheets, and Santana breathes out a sigh as her hands dip underneath Rachel's thin t-shirt and hesitantly skim over the expanse of her clenching abdomen, but then Santana pauses at the underside of Rachel's breast. She's not wearing a bra. It's the middle of the night— _of course_ she's not wearing a fucking bra. 

Santana scoots down, set on ravishing this beautiful creature practically writhing beneath her, but her nerves get the best of her, and she drops a surprisingly innocent kiss to Rachel's cheek instead. 

Rachel hums at the contact, seemingly not disappointed despite the unintended teasing, but she chases Santana's lips with a deeper kiss anyway—an intense and crazy and beautiful and incomprehensible kiss. Rachel's tongue pulls a moan out of Santana as soft lips move together languidly. A light touch settles on Santana's cheek as Rachel cradles her face in her hands, the pads of her thumbs softly stroking the smooth hair of her scalp. 

For awhile, they just kiss—minutes go by and Santana doesn't even notice, distracted by how good Rachel's tongue feels in her mouth as she runs it across her teeth and licks at Santana's lips every time she pulls back for a breath of air. She wants this badly. So badly. She's been wanting this for a while, and nobody but Rachel is going to be able to stop her from doing this. Nothing but the hands on her face, tracing every contour and beauty mark, can push her away. She's in this, no matter how horrible or guilt-ridden she might feel come morning. 

All she has the capacity to focus on is Rachel's breathing as she swipes her thumb across Santana's cheek, purposefully holding her back so that they can look at each other carefully, study each other's facial expressions. "Are we really doing this?" Rachel asks breathlessly, her voice barely above a whisper. 

She locks eyes with Rachel for a long moment before glancing away shyly. Her best friend's hair is a mess, eyes glistening in the dark shadows of the room, chest heaving up and down, and Santana needs to look away in order to think, because Rachel's just so damn gorgeous. After a moment, Santana swallows heavily, and then asks, "Do you wanna stop?"

Rachel only hesitates for half a second before shaking her head. "No," she says firmly. "No, I want to keep going."

Later, Santana will think back to that hesitation and wonder what it meant, but right now, she can't think of anything else but this woman beneath her, caressing her cheek so gently it feels like a prayer. 

Rachel says her name again, all breathless and not at all how she usually says it, and it tempts Santana—it actually forces her to look down at her best friend and keep her eyes open as she kisses her tenderly. Rachel rests back against her pillow as Santana kisses a wet trail across her jaw. 

Rachel's breathing falters, and she bends backwards, expanding her neck when Santana's kisses venture lower and lower down her throat, towards her collarbone. Santana gently nips at the tender flesh of her chest, but Rachel forces her back up, needy for a taste of her lips. She presses her tongue into Santana's mouth and works it slowly. Wide, painfully long kisses are exchanged as a hand tugs at the bottom of her shirt. 

Santana may not be the most insightful person, but she can definitely take a hint. She sits up slightly and only breaks their kiss long enough to slip her shirt off. It gets tossed away somewhere in the room. Rachel licks her lips, her eyes pinned to Santana's breasts, and for the first time in a long time, Santana flushes, self-conscious and insecure that her best friend is seeing her like this, even though Rachel seems to be appreciating the view. 

Santana can feel her cheeks flame as she murmurs, "You now." And then quickly helps Rachel out of her shirt. Rachel lifts her arms as Santana rolls the shirt up and over her head—she breathes out a sigh of relief once the sweaty shirt is finally discarded and her dark hair falls into her eyes. 

Santana wants her in so many ways right now. While she knows she can take it slow, it would only drive the both of them crazy at this point to tease and wait it out. No. No more waiting. No more hesitating, or second guessing. _No more teasing_.

She feels so inexperienced—almost like a naughty child—when she reaches for Rachel's breast. Rachel gasps into her mouth at the touch, and then Santana realizes how cold her hands are when her best friend shivers in her embrace. 

The contrast of their heated skin and the warm night, mixed with the chill of her hands, has Santana shivering too. Or maybe it's her nerves that's shaking her up. Whatever it is, it seems to be happening to Rachel as well, which only reminds Santana that if they really do this, they're in it together. 

She swipes her thumb over Rachel's peaked nipple and kisses her gently at the feeling of them hardening the more and more she tweaks the bud between her thumb and index finger. Rachel responds with a whimper, arching her chest into Santana's hand and deepening the kiss. 

She asks again if this is okay—if it's okay that her hand is trailing downwards, sliding over Rachel's smooth stomach and hovering over her with an anticipation so raw she can practically feel it. She'll probably be asking Rachel to voice her reassurance many times throughout the night. She wants to know for a fact that this isn't one-sided—that she's not the only one who wants this. 

Rachel assures her that she not only wants this but _needs_ this. She repeats it over and over again— _please, Santana, don't stop, that feels so good_ —every time Santana stops kissing her to find out if she's comfortable or if this isn't too overwhelming, because it's surely the most overwhelming thing Santana's ever done. Admittedly, the thought of having sex with her best friend has Santana kind of frightened—this would totally be the wrong time to arrive early or embarrass herself by chickening out—but she pushes through it.

Tonight, her needs overrule her wants. Tonight, she needs passion and penetration and heat. She needs dirty, open-mouthed kisses, exploring fingers and tongues, and someone willing to top her and bring her to euphoria. She needs lust and temptation but also a promise that Rachel will still be here with her the morning after. Now, is that to much to ask? For Rachel, it's not, because to Rachel, she's enough, and tonight, that's all Santana needs. 

But Rachel's her best friend, and Santana's gone there way too many times before. This could ruin their friendship, ruin everything they have together as roommates, but then Santana gazes down into those big brown eyes, at Rachel's wonderful body, at the sweat curling the edges of Rachel's long bangs, and Santana's never wanted anyone more than she wants Rachel. 

"My heart is beating so fucking hard right now," she says, and Rachel smiles, like it's the most endearing thing she's ever heard, but not a second later, a warm hand rests against Santana’s chest, right where her heart is about to discombobulate. Rachel looks to be stupefied at what she’s doing to Santana, but fuck that—she _really_ shouldn't. 

Overwhelmed, Santana can do nothing but capture Rachel's lips in hers and then pepper small kisses down her chin and between her breasts. She nuzzles the warm skin between the gap of Rachel's neck and shifts so that she's laying at a more comfortable angle. Rachel breathes unsteadily beneath her, eyes practically rolling back, and Santana can't look away. She wouldn't look away even if she could. 

Fingers run through her scalp and tug at her hair until she's back in front of Rachel. The sight of those eyes staring up at her, so trusting, so gone, has Santana closing her eyes as she leans down to kiss Rachel and slide her tongue between her lips before pulling away with a sigh. She’s too distracted by the body moving beneath her. Santana can barely come up with a single thought without getting side-tracked by Rachel's curvy hips thrusting up and practically grinding against air as she searches for some kind of friction to relieve the tension building between her thighs. Just the thought has Santana's mouth going dry. 

She wants to touch Rachel everywhere. _Everywhere_. God, where to start. Kissing her hungrily seems like a good plan, until it becomes the only thing they do for a good while. Rachel's tongue works in and out of Santana's mouth, and dear Lord, she's the best kisser Santana's had the pleasure of kissing in a very long time. 

She could get off at just the feeling of Rachel's tongue in her mouth, lips massaging her tongue as Rachel detaches from her lips and leaves a trail of kisses down her jaw and the expanse of her neck. It's fucking heaven. Santana could easily let this go on forever, but with the way Rachel's hips are rocking against hers, Santana knows this isn't going to last long once she shows Rachel what she can _really_ do with her hands. 

She finally finds the courage to dip her hand into Rachel's shorts, reassured and practically urged on by Rachel's insistence, and she gapes to discover her best friend isn't wearing any underwear. Her heartbeat picks up tenfold. She can already feel the wetness against the palm of her hand. Santana grits her teeth and noses the underside of Rachel's chin, groaning at the feel of her own heady wetness pooling between her thighs at just the expression on Rachel's face. 

Rachel wraps her calves around Santana's lower back, pressing Santana down further against her chest. It's a tough position to work from, but she's no amateur. Not even close. Santana takes her time and lets herself savor the moment, fingers stroking the outer lips of Rachel's sex and petting the tuft of hair lining her center. She dips a finger inside, slowly and teasingly, all the way down to the knuckle and watches Rachel's reaction closely. The girl beneath her grits her teeth, jaw clenching rigidly as she breathes out through her nose and digs her nails into Santana's shoulder. 

They both breathe out at the same time when Santana pulls in and out, her fingers flexing as she takes in Rachel's thoughtful expression. She adds another finger, and then asks, "How are—is this okay?"

Rachel only nods as she bites down hard on her lower lip, and it's so fucking hot the way she clenches her jaw and breathes through gritted teeth every time Santana latches onto her neck and whispers how good Rachel feels against her fingers. She's actually inside her, fucking Rachel with her fingers, and Santana looks on, her own restraint breaking as she works her hips down into the back of her hand. 

Fisting the sheets, Rachel writhes underneath her, and Santana watches, completely mystified at the sight of her best friend like this—so beautiful and exposed and vulnerable. She glances down and watches her hand move in Rachel's shorts, mouth hanging open at just the thought of _her hand being in Rachel's fucking shorts_. Rachel watches too, let's out this tiny noise, and then starts moving her hips against Santana's fingers, following each push and pull with a breathy sigh of relief every time Santana touches her where she absolutely needs contact most. 

Rachel wiggles her hips helplessly until Santana uses her unoccupied hand to pull down her shorts by the elastic. Rachel kicks them off and then arches up with a guttural moan. Santana presses her thigh in between Rachel's legs and spreads them so wide she can feel the wetness sliding against her as Rachel rides her leg with the need to get off. Santana's in desperate need of an orgasm too, but Rachel comes first. Her girl always comes first. 

Rachel's fingernails rake down Santana's back, under her shorts and over her ass, squeezing hard and delightfully, kneading the flesh as she pulls her closer, flush against her. She wraps her legs around Santana's waist and rolls her hips with a lustful kind of need only found in moments like this. 

It's a warm night, and they're both sweating on top of Rachel's sheets. Santana rocks her hips down, and Rachel meets her halfway. She actually mewls, and it's the sexiest noise Santana has ever heard in her entire life. She can't believe she's known Rachel for this long and has never heard her make that sound. 

With a soft curse and a gasping sigh, Rachel pants out against Santana's ear and then reaches down to push Santana's shorts and underwear down her legs until they're stuck around her ankles. Santana kicks the tiny articles of clothing off a moment later, smirking at the feeling of their naked bodies flush together for the first time. 

She looks down between their bodies to see her fingers moving in and out of Rachel's wetness, her thumb flexing as she circles her throbbing clit. Rachel's nails dig into Santana's shoulder blades and pull her down so that they're chest to chest, desperately rocking together. 

Santana can feel every muscle in her body working to its fullest extent as she rests her right hand beside Rachel's head and grinds her hips down, their centers pressing together between her hand, at that perfect spot, right where they both need it. She nips at Rachel's shoulder, breathes out a moan so throaty she wouldn't be surprised if she lost her voice, and holds on tight when Rachel pushes back up into her with a hitched gasp. 

It feels so good she can't stop. Rachel doesn't stop either, curling her hand around Santana's neck to keep her right where she is. It's an oddly intimate gesture compared to the frantic fucking they're doing now. Santana rests her forehead against Rachel's, scrunches up her nose at the look of total concentration sketched across her best friend's face. "Are you close?" she asks breathlessly. "Please tell me you're close."

Rachel nods so jerkily Santana can barely tell if that's a yes or no, but she ends up getting her answer a second later when Rachel's breathing picks up, and then she lets out this gasping whimper that Santana knows she'll be hearing in her dreams for the rest of her life, because Rachel orgasming is perhaps the sexiest thing Santana has ever experienced. 

She continues to slowly move her fingers in and out as she brings Rachel down from her high, and then it's quiet for a long time afterwards. Her shaky arms give out on her, and she flops beside Rachel with a groan of exhaustion. She can't believe she's actually tired after only a half-round. It's only been two months since she last had sex and she's already behaving like a senior citizen who has been out of the game for years. 

Santana stares into the darkness and continues to breathe heavily as she tries to ignore the throbbing in her center. Instead, she focuses on listening to the sound of cars and taxis and trucks driving back and forth on the streets below. She listens to the police sirens and the catcalls and the shattering of breaking glass. The noises of the city distract her from the sudden silence engulfing them as Santana glances sideways at Rachel, who is still trying to catch her breath as well. 

Rachel's cheeks are flushed red and her eyes look droopy, and Santana wonders if she's about to fall asleep on her—not like she would mind, because this really isn’t about sexual favors—but then everything she was just thinking becomes sorely irrelevant when Rachel crawls over her not a second later. 

Who knew it'd be even hotter looking at Rachel from on top of her? A mixture of heat and arousal has Santana's blood rushing down from her brain and back to her core, making her all kinds of dizzy. Soft hands trail down her stomach and then dull nails scratch up her thighs. Santana clenches her abs and tries her best to inhale as Rachel takes Santana's nipple into her mouth and sucks and bites down so hard Santana swears to God she sees stars. 

She stops breathing for a good minute as Rachel places scattered kisses down her abdomen, over her bellybutton, and towards that place where she needs Rachel most. She's not even confident that Rachel knows what she's doing, but fuck that—her girl's a fast learner, and Santana's been wanting this since before she even knew she wanted it. 

Rachel presses her tongue flat against the skin between Santana's thighs and drags it up so slowly Santana has to grab onto something, _anything_ , to keep from bucking her hips too hard. She whines like a bitch when Rachel peeks up at her with this drowsy smile, eyebrows furrowed adorably as she leaves kiss after kiss against her center. It's all so gentle, but it's also the most painful sensation Santana's ever felt—being worked up like this, teased so intensely her core is throbbing hotter than the fucking sun. She can actually feel Rachel smirking against her, and it would normally be frustrating if it wasn't so goddamn hot. 

She runs her hands through Rachel's hair to keep from doing something irrational, like using her own fingers to fuck herself. She wants to do this right, and there's no way in hell she's going to pass this up just because she's a little impatient. Rachel licks gently between Santana's folds, clearly trying to get used to the tangy taste and soft texture between Santana's thighs. She probably doesn't even realize how slowly she's building Santana up with each painfully long stroke of her tongue. 

Santana ravels her fingers through sweaty brown hair and presses Rachel's face further into her, and then grinds her hips up roughly into her best friend's awaiting tongue. It hits that perfect spot deep within her. Rachel mewls as she continues to lick, her movements mostly uncoordinated and sloppy, but fucking Christ—it feels so much better than any of the other women Santana's been with since coming to New York.

Blunt nails scrape up and down her thighs so gently it makes Santana shutter and rock her hips into a steadier rhythm before chancing a glance down at her lower body, half-expecting to see someone else down there—here's a secret: it wouldn't be the first time she imagined it being Rachel getting her off while having sex with another woman—and she shivers at the sight of her best friend staring back up at her from under her eyelashes. 

It's trippy how sincere Rachel looks as she practically digs her tongue into Santana, as if she's never tasted anything better. Santana's mouth hangs wide open and traps Rachel's head in between her thighs. She gasps when Rachel unexpectedly adds a finger into the mix, and everything is building so fast, her stomach clenching like an unwound coil.

Santana comes a few seconds later, her back arching off the bed, and she allows a muffled cry to escape as her eyes blur with not only the intensity of her orgasm but with unshed tears. 

Rachel concentrates on licking tenderly against her, giving Santana time to release her hold. When Santana finally slumps back against the bed, Rachel crawls up her body and covers her like a blanket so that they're flush together, hip to hip, inhaling the same air as they both try to catch their breath.

Her lungs feel like they're on fire. She closes her eyes and wraps an arm around Rachel's back, smiling lazily when Rachel's toe tickles up her calf before she stretches and rolls off of her completely.

She's sticky between her legs, her heart is still throbbing like an untreated wound, and the smell of sweat and sex fills the air with a thick, heady scent, but Santana has never felt more comfortable and sated in her life laying right here with Rachel. 

Without skin-to-skin contact, it's gotten cold in the room. Santana knows she's not in the right frame of mind—it's this odd rush of intense adrenaline that's given them the push to go somewhere in their relationship they've never been before, after all. Santana can already feel the regret coming on, but then Rachel turns over onto her side, throws an arm over Santana's torso, and then tucks her face into the gap of Santana's neck. 

Santana breathes out a sigh. She thrives off of having Rachel in her arms like this—naked and damp and just so beautiful. Rachel rests her head against Santana's chest, and she finds herself shivering once again as Rachel drops a light kiss to her collarbone. 

Rachel breathes out a puff of air and brushes a sweaty strand of hair out of her eyes. She leans over, and Santana's expecting Rachel to maybe cry or roll out of bed, but thankfully none of that happens. Santana's doesn't know what she'd do if Rachel left her after this. Pillowy soft lips press against hers, and Santana's eyes roll back when she tastes herself on Rachel's tongue. They stay like that for a while, just comfortably engulfed in each other, skin to sticky skin, making out slowly, their lips moving, openly and eagerly, with a soft whimper that motivates Rachel to suck greedily on Santana's lower lip and drag her tongue against her mouth languidly with no actual sense of time or location. 

 _God_. Rachel can kiss. Santana's so absorbed in those full lips of hers that she doesn't even realize there's a hand snaking around waist, holding her tight. It feels so good to be wanted. It feels so good to be held after sex for once. She hasn't felt this desired in months, and it feels good—just the two of them, their naked bodies pressed together despite the warmth of the night. 

Sure, it's massively sweaty and kind of gross, but it's Rachel, her best friend, and now there's nothing the two of them don't share. For Santana, that kind of realization should scare the shit out of her, but the fact that Rachel's her favorite person fully makes up for it. 

She presses one last kiss to the corner of Rachel's mouth before settling in next to her. She doesn't think about the repercussions of what they just did, she doesn't think about how sex always seems to ruin her friendships, and she definitely doesn't think about tomorrow morning. 

Santana shuts off her brain, smiling lazily when Rachel tucks her face into Santana's hair. Exhaustion seeps into her bones the longer she lays there. Rachel's breathing eventually evens out, and Santana slowly closes her eyes with a yawn, but then a shiver crawls up her spine at the sound of a very familiar voice in her head, whispering, _"Unfortunately, everything we do has a consequence, and every consequence, a broken heart. Yes, sometimes, to do something you want, you have to hurt someone you care about in the process. It's an unfortunate reality we must all face."_

Unfortunate, indeed.

But she'll face it in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no, I do not condone cheating, but please understand, Rachel and Santana are humans, and sometimes humans do bad things. if this seems OOC, it means you've just laid witness to a darker side of our girls. remember, it's all about motivations...
> 
> for any questions or comments you want answered, please feel free to visit me on my tumblr: http://acid-glue234.tumblr.com
> 
> next chapter: the aftermath (dundundun)


	3. all these demons, i can't beat 'em

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it again, guys. Went a little overboard, so I had to cut this chapter in half. The next piece should be up in a day or two. Or three.

The house goes up in flames, and once it's burned to the ground, all that's left is an empty fossil of what used to be. The sparks and embers simmer down, the crisp wood cracks and splinters, and the once durable structure is now no longer inhabitable. ****

She wakes up from the most disturbing dream—a bomb goes off, but after the dust clears, instead of shit and destruction, everything looks exactly the same—before realizing it wasn't a dream at all. Well, not exactly. Santana's never really been into metaphors. That's more Rachel's thing. She's not the type to analyze her dreams, or closely observe what others do around her, which has unfortunately earned her a reputation of being oblivious to the things right under her nose, despite her infamous psychic Mexican third eye.

She's on her usual left side of the bed, but she can easily tell she's not lying in her _own_ bed. The mattress isn't lumpy enough, and the sheets smell like lilacs—which. _Right_. She's in Rachel's bed, and she resists the urge to turn over, fearful of what she'll find, or really, _who_ she'll find. 

Her lips are chapped. Her back is sore, and there's a crook in her neck. Her eyes feel crusty with dry tears, but she doesn't even remember crying—not a lot, at least. Her tongue feels numb in her mouth. She moves it around and then winces when it hits a raw cut right inside the fold of her bottom lip. Did she bite herself, or did Rachel— 

Santana swallows hard but it hurts because of her dry throat. Her heart feels heavy in her chest, and there’s a knot somewhere in there, but her body is almost weightless, floating in a sense of calm that she knows should probably be a deep burn of regret and anxiety. 

She tries not to think about that.

It's too fucking early for regrets. 

It's barely even morning. The birds are chirping outside. The garbage truck is slowly trudging up and down the street. A stream of sunlight cuts directly across Santana's body, slicing her in half at the waistline. She yawns and contemplates going back into her own bed, but she can't really feel her legs. She shifts her thighs to the side with a wince. _Fuck_. 

Rachel’s a mouth breather, and Santana lies still for a moment, listening, before slowly turning over, but the only thing beside her is a cold, empty space and a crumpled pillow. She doesn't know what she was expecting to find, but she curses under her breath anyway as a strike of panic hits her right in her chest, only to hear Rachel whisper, "Santana, relax. I'm right here." 

Her voice is low and hesitant, and Santana flips over, her messy hair falling into her eyes. Rachel's sitting in a creaky chair near the edge of her blue curtain. She's barefoot, knees pulled up into her chest, and she's never looked so tiny. She's wrapped up in a giant, red flannel—Santana's giant, red flannel—with one hand in her hair, messing with her bangs, and the other rubbing roughly at her shoulder. Santana licks her dry lips and tries not to find it sexy that Rachel is wearing her shirt, but _Jesus_ —there is a good fucking chance Rachel's still not wearing a bra underneath. 

Slowly and fatigued, Santana sits up, propped on her elbow. "Wh—what are you doing?" she asks, her croaky voice laced with exhaustion. She coughs a little to clear her throat. "Why are you over there?"

Cheeks pink, Rachel glances away, lips pressed together in embarrassment, and so with an exasperated sigh, Santana shifts the sheets so that they’re covering her exposed chest. Whatever. It’s cold anyway.

She chances a glance at the alarm clock on Rachel's nightstand and then rolls her eyes tiredly. "It's seven in the morning, Rach. On a Saturday. Come back to bed." 

She lifts a hand, raises an eyebrow, and then waits, but Rachel only looks at her, eyes sunken, lips swollen and red. "I hope you don't mind that I borrowed this," she murmurs, clutching the front of Santana's flannel shirt so hard her fist turns pale. "It's just that...I was kind of, um—"

"Naked," Santana supplies, a little too sleepy to worry about filtering her language right now. 

Rachel visibly swallows and then bows her head. "Yeah," she whispers, smiling at little bit, but it's the wrong kind of smile. She looks almost rueful, lost, lacking. "I would've put on my own sweater, but I didn't want to shuffle through my closet and risk waking you up."

Santana nods and then rubs the sleep out of her eyes. "How long were you watching me sleep?" she asks, cracking a weak grin. 

There's an awkward laugh, and then Rachel smiles again, the same weird smile, before shifting restlessly on her creaky chair. "I woke up and had to use the bathroom," she explains, her face turning red. "It—I would've gotten back into bed, but..."

Santana doesn't hold her breath. If she did, she'd probably suffocate. "But?"

Rachel breathes steadily and then cups the back of her neck with a shake of her head. "Did—" She cuts herself off and then clenches her jaw before starting over. "Did last night really happen, or did my dreams suddenly become very, very...wet?"

Santana sighs and plops back down on her pillow. She closes her eyes, and yeah—her mind instantly conjures up images of a head of brown curly hair bobbing between her thighs. She opens her eyes again to stop the play by play of what feels like a dream but irrevocably leaves very strong remnants of reality. "Either last night happened," she says, curling her fingers around the sheets and against her chest, "Or we had the same wet dream."

Rachel groans and then curls up into a ball on the chair. They stare at each other. Nothing is said. Santana blinks, her eyes itchy and red as she looks at Rachel in her shirt and still tries not to find it sexy, but Rachel cuts through Santana’s musings when she covers her face with her hands and makes this shrieky, whimpering noise, biting down hard on her bottom lip, practically drawing blood. "Please say something," she almost begs. 

Santana tongues at the cut inside her lip. She shrugs helplessly. "What do you want me to say?" 

"Something," Rachel murmurs, and then, louder, " _Fuck_. Anything, Santana."

There only used to be one occasion in which Rachel would curse—when she's frustrated or annoyed over a difficult class or an unfair audition, or anything, really—but now Santana knows of another, and with that, there's a mental snapshot of her best friend gasping and keening and grinding and— 

There's a hollow silence, but then Santana cuts into it, whispering, "C'mere first." 

Rachel doesn't move a muscle. Her eyes are downcast, lips pursed, and her entire posture is crooked. There looks to be about a million and one questions zooming through Rachel's pretty head right now, and Santana's not surprised by it at all. This girl is her best friend, and out of everyone, Santana should know her best. Rachel never turns her brain off. Her thoughts are working hard, calculating and crunching and connecting, like an overloaded computer spitting out data full of random numbers and symbols as it troubleshoots and tries to figure out what's wrong. 

But despite whatever is going on in Rachel's head, Santana keeps her hand out, and eventually Rachel sits at the edge of her bed, though she refuses to take Santana's offered hand. Santana sighs. She doesn't want it to be this way. She doesn't want _them_ to be this way. What they did was—well, it was hot and dirty and amazing, but it was just sex, and even though Rachel's all about doing it with the right person, she also has to know that sometimes sex can be for other things too. 

Without thinking, she hesitantly caresses Rachel's cheek, a little more reassured when Rachel doesn't flinch away but instead embraces the feel of Santana's touch. Santana allows her eyes to find Rachel's lips, but she only stares, softly swipes at red, ample cheeks, and then rests her forehead within the slope of Rachel's nose. It's a perfect fit. 

"Last night was..." Her voice trails off, and she finds herself smiling despite everything. She almost laughs too—because she's not respectful enough to pretend that Rachel's only been with one other person, and Santana highly doubts Rachel's first and only time with Finn was anything but awkward; Finnept is inept at everything he does, and Santana knows on a firsthand basis how much he sucks at sex—but Rachel's despondent sigh immediately tampers down her laughter. "Christ, I don't know," Santana finishes lamely, licking at her lower lip and wincing when she’s reminded of the sore cut there. 

Rachel looks at her for a long time, and then whispers, "I'm so sorry."

Santana closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, because well, she's not stupid enough to ignore there's something to be sorry about—there will be consequences and repercussions for what they did, of course—but do they really have to do this now? Right now? Can't they just revel in the morning after for just a second longer before they must go back to thinking like sensical adults with morals and a thoughtful conscience? That can happen later, right? Please, if it's going to happen at all, let it happen later when she can actually keep her eyes open long enough to think about the complications that are sure to arise after everything that happened last night. 

"Rach," Santana murmurs, squeezing Rachel's hand in her own. She closes her eyes and shifts her head so that they're cheek to cheek, but Rachel only breathes out a sigh through her nose before pulling away. Santana holds back the temptation to grunt in annoyance, but she really doesn't want to face reality. Not yet anyway. "Rachel. Let's not do this now, okay? I don't want to make this—"

"I helped you cheat on Jenn," she interrupts, with this watery stare that immediately has Santana on the defense. "You cheated."

Santana shifts uncomfortably, suddenly realizing that she's still naked as fuck, but she's feeling a lot more exposed now that Rachel's gone on and brought up what they both already fucking know. "Don't you dare put all of this fuckery on me, Berry," she bites, because hell if she's going to be the only one held responsible for this, because, "You cheated too."

It’s almost as if that accusation doesn't quite register, because Rachel just stares right past her, but then she silently nods her head in acknowledgement. "Right," she whispers, almost as if she forgot she has a stupid boyfriend probably waiting for a good morning text as she and Rachel sit semi-naked beside each other in the same bed they just...shared together last night. Restless, Rachel looks down at her hands. "Are you going to tell Jenn?" Shaking her head, she doesn't wait for an answer and mumbles, "What am I saying? You have to tell her."

The thought of that alone has Santana feeling nauseous, and her stomach sinks even further. It is not a pleasant sensation. "Absolutely not," she scoffs, suddenly a little too bare for this conversation. She presses the white sheets to her chest again and scoots an inch away from her friend. 

“W-what?" Rachel says, a little sullenly. 

"Are you fucking high? We can't tell." She's yelling now. She can tell by the shocked expression on Rachel's face. Sighing, Santana immediately turns down the volume and continues with, "Jenn would be—fuck, she'd be heartbroken. Not to mention how the fucking media would tear my ass a new one if they ever caught wind of the fact I cheated on my girlfriend with my _roommate_." She can see it now. _Another bitchy girlfriend tears Jenn Malone's heart to shreds, page 2_. Not only Jenn, but all of New York would hate her. "No, this mistake isn't worth the end of both our relationships."

"Mistake?" Rachel looks unsure. "So, you regret what happened."

Santana waits a beat. "Don't you?"

"I—" Rachel's lips tremble. "But you said you didn't want to stop." 

Her eyes can’t help but seek out those damn lips, and Santana thinks of last night—how soft they were, how they both couldn't resist, how this is going to change everything now. "As did you," she accuses. 

"Because I didn't."

Santana lifts a hand and squints her eyes. If they agree on this, then what's the fucking problem? "Me neither," she concedes, and then adds, "During the moment, at least. But now, it's daylight, Rachel, and...and—"

"And so now it's time to return to the girlfriend you barely even like—forget love."

Her heavy breathing is only a side-effect of all the confused frustration coursing through her blood. "Okay, am I missing something here?" she snaps, eyes narrowed sharply. “We slept together, but we’re both dating other people. Sure, it was hot, but it was also fucking wrong. My regrets don't include what we did, Rach. It includes the people we're going to hurt."

There’s a long pause. Rachel sniffles, unable to meet Santana's eyes. "Same," is all she says, eventually, and then anxiously picks at her polished nails with a sour expression.

Santana slowly deflates, and the anger leaves her body as fast as it came. She didn’t mean to raise her voice, and she definitely didn’t mean to make Rachel feel inadequate in any way, shape, or form. 

Maybe it was stupid of her to think they could just wake up cuddling and then go back to their old lives, how they were before last night, because now Rachel can barely look at her, working her jaw in frustration as she glances up to the ceiling, probably seeking out help from God or whomever she believes in, though Santana has a feeling that neither of them are even very religious unless they're shouting out His name in vain during their highest points of ecstasy.

Her cheeks burn with shame, but she can't feel this way—not right now anyway, and so Santana peers up at Rachel from under her lashes, only to wince and then lift a hand to point guiltily at Rachel's scarred neck. "You've got—um..." she trails off, tilting her head a little to get a better look. 

Eyes wide, Rachel slaps a hand to her neck. "I know." She rubs at her clavicle, exposing the many other red, angry markings scattered across her skin. It looks as if she's trying to rub them out, but unfortunately that's not really how hickeys work. Eventually, she gives up and arches a brow. "You kind of—well, because of your complexion, yours aren't as noticeable, but..."

Santana rubs at her neck with a roll of her eyes. "Shit," she curses, climbing out of bed with a sheet wrapped around her chest. "The fuck am I gonna explain this?" 

Rachel stands too, and then they stare at each other awkwardly for a moment until Rachel moves out of the way with a flustered, "Sorry."

Santana feels heavy eyes glued to her bare back the whole way out of Rachel’s curtain.

She hurries into the shower. It's not that she's looking to scrub all the reminders of Rachel and last night off of her, but—well, there's only so much damage you can do to yourself and a relationship before the only salvation left is to wash it away and hope it'll disappear down the drain and never resurface again. 

But unfortunately, that's not how mistakes work. They hang over your shoulders, literally, like a crushing weight, always there to remind you of what you've done and the consequences that will come, because karma is real, and it'll be back to haunt you when you least expect it. 

After drying herself off, Santana looks her naked self in the mirror and her eyes sink at the sight of four red lines clawed down her back. There's also a bruise on her shoulder that she thinks Rachel may have caused when she bit Santana during her orgasm. And fuck, there's still that annoying raw cut on the inside of her bottom lip that she can’t stop tonguing. 

She already knew she was going to hell, but now it's definitely confirmed.  

\--

Afterwards, Santana comes out of her curtain to find Rachel fixing breakfast—she doesn't know how to do much other than make coffee and then stick whole wheat bread into a toaster, so that's what she busies herself with as Santana shuffles into the kitchen after pulling on some shorts and Rachel's NYADA sweatshirt. If Rachel's going to wear her clothes, it's only appropriate that she puts on Rachel's shit as well. 

Santana takes a seat at the counter and then smiles crookedly when Rachel slides a cup of black coffee in front of her. She means to offer her thanks, but her voice gets stuck in her throat, so she just nods instead. 

The silence is kind of unbearable. Usually they can just sit around like this and it's okay, because they're Santana and Rachel, and they haven't needed words to fill a comfortable silence in ages, but that’s the thing: this morning the silence isn't comfortable—it's loud and deafening, and it's clearly making them both anxious, so Santana decides to break the odd tension, whispering out, "Now you're not saying anything."

Rachel wipes a hand down her face and then turns away from the toaster. She leaves a hand pressed to her cheek as her eyes sink down to the kitchen counter woefully. "I'm not saying anything because I don't know what to say. Last night—I just don't know," she says, roughly rubbing at her elbow. "We've always joked about doing this, but I guess I never thought we actually would. Now that we did...well—I'm sorry, I can't even articulate what's going through my head right now."

She keeps saying sorry, and it's really starting to get on Santana's nerves, "I think I'm the one who should be apologizing, Rachel."

Tracing the square tiles on the breakfast bar, Rachel frowns and says, "You really shouldn't be—"

"I mean, I'd be lying if I said I never thought about what sleeping with you would be like, as you probably already know. I never really kept it a secret, did I?" Santana shrugs at the look Rachel sends her, but seriously—Rachel's so attractive, anyone would be an idiot not to be interested. "And like, this whole thing with Jenn, and her wanting us to wait, and everyone telling me that you guys look alike—it just messed with my head, so I'm the one who’s sorry, Rach.” 

She can never apologize enough for the mess they both just created. Santana yanks at her collar, needing something to distract herself with, because Rachel is just standing there and looking at her and waiting to hear more. Her eyes are still red, as if she hasn’t slept in ages, but it looks more like guilt than insomnia.

Santana so desperately wants to take the weight off of Rachel’s shoulders, and so she says, "I'm sorry for helping you cheat on Lloyd, and for using you for sex, Rach, and...and for taking away the chance for you to do this with someone special." 

She thinks she covered just about everything, but Rachel's still only staring at her, except now with wide eyes and a startled expression. The face she used to be able to read so easily is now heavily guarded and impenetrable, and to Santana it’s like trying to understand an entire book written in another language. 

She bites the inside of her cheek. "Rachel, please talk to me."

"You—" Rachel just laughs and scrunches up her nose the way she does when she's puzzled over something. "You w-what?" In her head, Santana repeats what she just said but then shrugs, pushing aside her cup of coffee to give Rachel her full attention. "Jenn and I," Rachel starts, and then shakes her head as tears gather at the edge of her eyes. "What do you mean people say we _look alike_? Did you...were you thinking of her while we—"

"No, no, Rachel," Santana exasperates, scoffing out a laugh. "Fuck no. I would never. You know I would never do that to you."

"Then why did you say you were using me for sex? This is—was I just something you needed to get out of your system?"

"Okay, wait—am I tripping on acid, or is that not what happened last night?" Santana stands up from her stool and raises her hands in exasperation, waiting for Rachel's rebuttal, but she only stands there, eyes focused hard on the kitchen counter. "Before you went off to Philly, you tried to get me to sleep with you, am I right?"

Rachel's chest caves in as her breath hitches. "I don't see what that—"

"Am I right?" she presses. 

"Yes, Santana. Fine, _I did_ , but—"

"And was that not because you tanked your audition? Because, as I remember it, you told me, and I quote, ' _other girls have sex with you to feel better, so why not me? Why can't I feel better for once?_ ' Did you not say that, Rachel?" Santana challenges, palms flat on the counter as she leans forward. They have a face off, and Santana quirks an eyebrow, but Rachel doesn't say anything. "That's what I thought. Don't make me out to be the bad guy when you used me too." She holds back tears and rubs a finger at her throbbing temple, whispering, "We used each other."

The dam finally breaks, but it's Rachel who starts crying first, almost sobbing even. She hunches over, elbows propped up as she tries her best to breathe and frantically wipe her tears away. "It's just that—you have to understand that I'm really struggling with who I am as a person right now. _Morally_ ," she adds, her voice all gurgled and wet, cheeks blotchy and red. "Not only did we do this for all the wrong reasons, but I—...Santana, there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

Santana says nothing, and just examines Rachel for a moment, watches as her roommate tries to compose herself. She hates seeing Rachel like this. She wants to comfort her, brush Rachel's tears away, but Santana keeps her distance, just out of reach. "Okay," she drawls, when Rachel fails to continue. "Well, what is it—that you need to tell me?"

A wrinkle forms in between Rachel's eyebrows as she struggles with what to say next. "I—it's kind of complicated. I've been trying to figure out how I feel about everything for a very long time now, because obviously _this_ ," she says, gesturing between the two of them, clearly referring to what happened last night, "It didn't just come out of nowhere, but you have a girlfriend, and I have...I have—"

"Higgins," Santana mutters and then kicks at the kitchen counter. "I get it, and I feel horrible too. I failed Jenn. I failed myself. I..." There's really nothing more she can say to explain how disappointed she is in herself for doing something so stupid—something so dumb that she couldn't help but love every second of. It's so backwards, and there's no way to decide her own punishment for enjoying such an awful deed like cheating. "This is the first promise I've broken in a really long time, and just—Jenn would be crushed by this. She's told me how proud of me she is and thankful that I've put up with this, but—I couldn't even hold out. Three fucking months is all she asked. _Three months_."

Rachel's eyes are big and round as she whispers, "Santana, I'm so—"

"Don't. It's not your fault."

"But _it is_."

It's disconcerting how adamant Rachel is over being the one to blame—sure, she started it all with a kiss, but who's to say Santana wouldn't have kissed her first if Rachel didn't beat her to the punch? Santana kissed her back. It takes two. They're both at fault. 

"If you don't blame me for helping you cheat on Higgins, then it'd be wholly unfair of me to do the same, and just— _this is so fucked up_ ," she mutters, covering her face with her hands. "I wanted this. I brought this on myself, and it makes me feel so—so fucking awful...knowing that I proved everyone right."

Henry, Kurt, Cole, even Angela had laughed at her when Santana told them about Jenn's abstinence, and then they teased her, saying she couldn't do it, that there's no way she could go without sex, because that's just _who she is_. 

She wanted to laugh back in their stupid faces three months later, after having proven them all wrong, but—it's like she cheated on a diet, or snuck a cigarette, except worse, because Jenn is a person, and people have feelings. People can feel hurt and pain. They experience disappointment and shame. Santana's never wanted to make Jenn feel that way. But this...—this is going to break her heart, all over again. 

They stare at each other for the longest time, but then Rachel looks away first and squeezes the bridge of her nose. "After last night, I'm sure we're both confused about a lot of things—solely, where we stand in our friendship," she says, her voice kind of low and scratchy. She doesn't sound like the Rachel Berry she's known for years, but then again, she doesn't really look like her much anymore either, especially when she closes her eyes and asks, "But was this really all about the sex?"

"I...don't get the question," Santana murmurs, narrowing her eyes, because it sort of sounds like Rachel's fishing for something here. "What else would it have been about?"

Rachel opens her mouth, but she doesn't say anything at first. She just crosses her legs and slides her hands over the tiled counter. "Santana, I'm a talker, sure, but I can't always tell you how I feel," she explains. 

Santana crinkles her nose, not understanding in the slightest. "Why can't you—"

"It's just— _God, Santana_ ," Rachel laughs, but it's weak and nothing at all how she usually sounds. The girl is practically trembling, and Santana considers reaching out, but that might just make everything worse, so she stays where she is and waits until Rachel steadies herself and adds, "I don't know if I can do this right now."

Santana chuckles weakly and says, "Rach, I get it."

" _No_ ," she snaps, and then shakes her head stubbornly. "No, you don't!"

"Hey, chill the fuck out, okay?" She hates it when Rachel cries, so she takes a hesitant step down the counter and then holds Rachel's hand before the other girl can move away. Santana uses her soft voice when she says, "All I was gonna say is that I think you're right—about telling them what happened." Rachel doesn't respond, just looks down and watches as Santana rubs a thumb over her hand. "What are you thinking?" she asks after a pause. 

Rachel sniffles and then wipes at her eyes with her sleeve. "Anyone cheated on deserves to know, of course, but I—” Her big, brown eyes shift back and forth with indecision. “I'm going to need a few days to think this through clearly and assess the situation before moving forward."

Sounds fair enough. Santana still doesn't know what she's going to do about Jenn. Should they just breakup? Obviously she has to tell the girl what happened. She's not going to be a cheater  _and_ a liar, but will Jenn want to stay with her after this? Does Santana even want Jenn to forgive her? There's so much to consider, and maybe she should have thought this through before sleeping with her best friend, but _should have_ and _would have_ are useless terms now. It happened. And now they have to deal with the aftermath. 

She thoughtfully plays with Rachel's fingers for a moment, and then says, "Listen, I just wanted to tell you that—"

"Santana, I really don't want to talk about this anymore," Rachel murmurs, pulling her hand away. 

It stings—Rachel walking away and turning her back on Santana physically stings. "But we talk about everything. Don't get all shy on me now, not after last night," she says, but Rachel only turns away to face the pantry. Another sting. "C'mon, babe, don't shut down on me. We—well, this isn't the first time I've slept with a friend, so take it from me, we can get past this. We're best friends."

"No," Rachel says, spinning around to face Santana again, her fists clenched to her sides. " _No_. Do not use that Brittany-logic on me, Santana Lopez. Best friends— _normal_ best friends—do not do these types of things with each other. _To_ each other."

Santana’s vision goes out of focus, and there's a painful sensation pressing at the back of her eyes, but she doesn't want to cry. Not over this. Not in front of Rachel. So, she flares her nostrils and then runs a shaky hand through her messy hair before asking, "What are we then? If we're not _normal_ best friends, then what are we?"

"Santana, I don't—" Rachel doesn't answer for the longest time, only nibbles on her bottom lip, and then eventually mutters, "I—I need to take a shower." She walks out of the kitchen and then slams the bathroom door behind her, leaving Santana all alone in the kitchen with her own dizzying thoughts. 

She can't breathe for a moment, and she absently wonders how long she can go on this way before all the air leaves her body. Rubbing at her neck, she goes out onto the fire escape and leans over the dripping wet railing, coughing heavily as tears trickle down her cheeks. 

It's cold and it's quiet and it's so damn lonely out here. It always is, but the fresh air helps with her headache—it clears her mind and helps her not think too much. Santana breathes out deeply into the fresh April morning and clenches her eyes shut. 

What she wouldn't do for a fucking cigarette right now. 

\-- 

The rest of the week is like traveling through a dark tunnel with no source of light at the end. She goes through the motions. Wake up. About mid-afternoon. Shower. Transit. Work. Transit. Bed. It's easy for her to avoid Rachel. They used to have to make an effort to run into each other, but Santana doesn't bother to drop by Rachel's curtain in the early morning after her shift, and Rachel doesn't come by Silk anymore. 

She doesn't tell a soul. Not Cole. Not Henry. She usually tells them everything, but this isn't something she can brag about. Rachel's not some random girl she just picked up at the bar. She's _Rachel_. She's neurotic about what goes where, and she's always accurate about dates and times, and she can't take a shower without belting out at least three songs from _Funny Girl_. She goes running every day at the same time whether it's raining or snowing or the world is coming to an end. She can burn something as simple as rice on the stovetop, and she makes it a habit of rewashing the dishes after Santana half-asses the job. She's Santana's best friend, so she's not like any other girl. She'll never ever just be some random girl to Santana, because she's _Rachel_. 

It's like they go from 100 to 0. Literally. A week ago they were rolling around in bed together, and now they can't even look at each other without a shadow of guilt or regret falling over them. 

They cheated. They both did. And Santana can't even say she has it worse, because Rachel even seems disappointed in herself. When Santana does catch her roommate lounging around the loft, she's in one of her big sweatshirts, arms wrapped tightly around herself, either meditating, or just staring off into space. 

Santana never sits beside Rachel or asks her what she's thinking, and she kind of resents herself for it, but it's hard to be near Rachel right now. Their proximity will only remind her of Jenn, and how she has to tell her girlfriend that she cheated on her with her best friend. It'll just remind her that she can't control herself around attractive women, that she can't keep promises, and that she actually had sex with her best friend and enjoyed it enough to want to do it again. 

She meets Jenn for lunch out in Manhattan at one of their favorite eateries. They share a basket of buffalo wings and fries, and as they eat, Santana thinks about how she should break the news. She won't do it here, of course, because it's loud and noisy, and there are other people around, customers and waiters milling about, back and forth, in and out. 

She should do it somewhere private, just in case Jenn cries. Just in case Santana cries telling her what happened. 

"I really wish I could read your mind."

Santana peeks up, ears perked. "Hm?"

" _Exactly_. What you are thinking, San? Where do you go in that big head of yours?" Jenn wonders, smiling teasingly, but Santana only shrugs a shoulder and then takes a small bite out of another fry. Surprisingly, Jenn continues to smile, despite Santana's resistance. "I don't know, I just—I wanna know everything about you. We don't talk about stuff," she whines with a pretty smile, eyes sinking down to the table. "We just hang out, and then kiss, and joke around some, but I wanna know _you_ , Santana Lopez."

Jenn likes to dig, ask questions, dissect and analyze people, but Santana's always been better at getting to know people as time goes by. That's how she got to know Rachel, anyway. They never asked each other anything about their personal lives—whatever it was they wanted to share at the moment, they shared. Whatever they wanted to reveal to each other, they revealed.  

But Jenn isn't Rachel, and she never will be. Santana needs to remember that. "Okay," she agrees, wiping her greasy hands off on a napkin. "What do you want to know?"

Jenn smirks and then twirls a finger around her shoulder-length brown hair. "Tell me about Brittany."

Santana sighs. Not this again. "I already told you. Just a girlfriend."

"Are you sure that's all she is?"

"That's all she _was_ ,” Santana murmurs, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, but then she peeks up when she hears a gasp, only to see Jenn holding a hand over her mouth in sorrowful astonishment. 

"Oh, I'm sorry,” she murmurs, looking genuinely upset. "When did she pass?"

"Wh—no, Jenn," Santana snorts despite her annoyance on the subject. "She didn't _die_. I just meant that she's not in my life. We don't really talk much anymore."

It's really as simple as that. Brittany broke her heart, so she moved to New York. Rachel got her back on her feet and helped her start a new life, and—well. Jenn looks likes she's waiting to hear more, but Santana doesn't see why it's necessary they talk about the ghosts of their pasts, because that's all they are. Ghosts. 

Jenn nudges Santana's foot underneath the table. "Then tell me about something else. Or someone else," she says, and it sounds like she's alluding to something, which Santana learns she's spot on about when Jenn adds, "What about Rachel? Tell me how you guys became friends."

"Can we not—" Santana breathes out a sigh and tampers down her frustration before it can turn into misdirected anger. "I don't really wanna talk about Rachel, okay?"

"Did something happen between you two?" Jenn asks, clearly concerned—and although Santana hasn't been able to talk about what happened with anyone, hell if she'll tell Jenn, the one person Santana's afraid of finding out most. "San, please," she whispers, her voice barely audible in the noisy restaurant. "This is exactly what I mean. We don't—I want us to be able to talk about the important stuff, but you won't open up to me."

Santana lowers her eyes to the table. "Fine," she mutters and then leans back in her chair before folding her arms over her chest. "You want to talk about shit, let's talk, but not about Rachel. She's off limits." 

Jenn looks taken aback, hurt even, but she quickly masks her pain with a weary smile—a skillset her girlfriend is way too good at.

If she were talking to Henry about this, he would come up with some kind of psychological reason for her aggressive behavior—probably something along the lines of how she's redirecting the guilt she feels on to Jenn, the one person she's trying to hide her mistakes from most. But she's not talking to Henry. He's at work, answering _Ask Henry_ letters about people with Santana's exact problem. 

"I really don't understand your relationship with her," Jenn sighs, before finally changing the subject to something else entirely, excitedly rambling on about the recent project she's been working on in one of her pre-law courses, but Santana's more focused on Jenn's unnerving statement that keeps repeating itself in her head: _I really don't understand your relationship with her._

Funny, because no one ever seems to, and now Santana doesn't understand it either. 

\--

The apartment creaks, the pipes squeak, the police sirens wail, and the stoners outside argue over the last blunt. 

Everything remains the same, but _nothing_ is the same. 

She can't sleep at night. The blankets feel scratchy against her skin, her pillow is lumpy, and there’s a crack in her window that makes it chilly sometimes, but she doesn't get out of bed. She stays right where she is, because running into Rachel at night can't happen anymore. Even though sleeping in Rachel's bed, with Rachel beside her, is the only way she can get a good night sleep, Santana forces herself to stay in bed and then presses the heel of her palms against her eyelids. 

There are just too many fucking ghosts in this apartment, so after much careful thought and deliberation, Santana makes the decision to stay with Cole for a few days. She doesn't move out of the loft completely, because that's kind of extreme—also, she doesn't have any money to live on her own—but she does leave a sticky note on the fridge for Kurt and Rachel so that they don't worry about where she is, or if she got kidnapped or something, because they're the type of drama queens that would fabricate an entire adventure about where Santana disappeared to and then create a plan as to how they'll rescue her. 

Cole opens the door with a smile that quickly turns upside down. "What did you do?" she says flatly, running a hand down her face. 

"Nada." She tries to walk past her but Cole just tugs on the back of Santana’s shirt to keep her from coming inside. 

Cole places her arm across the doorway. "Bullshit,” she says, eyebrows knit in concern as she asks Santana what's wrong—why she's coming over her apartment with a small duffle bag and her pillow—but Santana just shrugs a shoulder and makes something up about Rachel's vocal exercises keeping her up at night. 

More than likely, Cole probably knows what happened. Santana hasn't exactly been silent about her recent urges, and everyone seems to know that whatever Santana wants, she eventually gets. 

Over the last few weeks, she's wanted Rachel, so Cole does the math before welcoming her in with an arched brow and an expression full of question, but she doesn't audibly inquire anymore, which is probably in her best interest. The last thing Santana wants is for other people to know about this. No, Cole and Jenn aren't friends, exactly, but they do hang around the same circles—after all, there's only so many lesbians in their age group around this part of the city. 

It's probably better for everyone that she stay with Cole anyway. Finals are coming up at NYADA this week, and the last thing Santana wants to do is distract Rachel from her academics. Neither of them can barely sleep at night nowadays, and Santana knows this for a fact, because sometimes she can hear footsteps tiptoeing past her curtain and then noises in the kitchen as Rachel fixes herself a midnight snack. 

Kurt's been staying with Henry more often than usual, and it makes Santana wonder if Rachel's told him—or anyone, for that matter—about what happened. It wouldn’t surprise her at all if Angela already knows, and if Angela knows, Daniel knows by association, and if Daniel knows, it's pretty much a given that Gwen knows too. 

Those losers have lips that sink ships. They can't hold water to keep themselves from drowning, so Santana knows that she has to tell Jenn about what happened soon, before she finds out from someone else.

Turns out, work isn't any better than home. Every time Todd looks at her it's like he _knows_. But then again, Todd always has that warning look on his face whenever he glances at Santana, like he's just waiting to bust her for treating his sister badly. Santana used to give him the same look back and then mockingly wink in his direction, but now she just ignores him and goes back to work. 

Her hours at Silk used to feel just like they are— _hours_. But now her shift flies by, her mind muddled with thoughts of that night—flashes of Rachel's body crawling all over her, pretty white teeth biting at her inner thighs, blunt nails scraping up and down her clenching stomach—and Santana feels ashamed all over again, forcing herself to think of something else. 

Her girlfriend's twin brother is standing right beside her. She shouldn't be having thoughts about another woman. Not now. 

Not here, not ever. 

\--

She's sitting bored and pretty on Cole's couch with a bowl of cereal, allowing herself to get sucked in by the trials and tribulations of mindless television when an Apple commercial pops up and Santana realizes she forgot her iPad in her room. It's one o'clock and Rachel will be in class for another hour, so right now is probably the only opportunity Santana will have until Wednesday to get her iPad without the risk of running into her (ex?) roommate. 

It's a nice, warm day, so Santana walks the seven and a half short blocks it takes to get back to the loft, and she's thankful when no one's home as she enters to quickly fetch her iPad. The place looks different, but Santana can't exactly pinpoint what it is. All she knows is that it can't be anything too drastic. After all, she's only been gone for less than a week. Really, how much can change during such a small amount of time?

Stalling in the living area, she opens her iPad to check her email when there's a knock on the door. It startles the hell out of her and she almost drops her iPad. Both Kurt and Rachel have keys, and so does Henry, so who the fuck could that be? 

Santana opens the door and it's Lawrence. Fucking _great_. "Henry's not here," she tells him, and then tries to shut him out, but Lawrence just puts his foot in the door. 

With a haughty grin, he tells Santana, “I already know. I came to see _you_ , lucky lady.”

Rolling her eyes, she reluctantly welcomes him in with a skeptical look, waiting, but Lawrence only circles the living area before stealing a glance at Santana's iPad. "What's this?" he asks, reaching for the device, but Santana grabs for it and then holds the iPad to her chest on her way to the kitchen. 

"None of your fucking business," she bites, turning her back to him. "What do you want?"  

She can hear Lawrence smiling—it's all in his voice as he approaches her from behind and says, "Look, despite Henry being my best friend, I just have to say this. Henry's the puppet, and Kurt's the puppeteer, which shouldn't be too shocking of a revelation, because I think we've both always known, in some regard, that Henry loves Kurt more than Kurt loves Henry." Santana blinks and presses her iPad ever further into her chest before rotating her wrist, gesturing for him to go on. "Now, the question is, what are we gonna do about it?"

Okay. He lost her. "How about nothing?" she scoffs, pushing off from the counter. "I already have enough on my plate as it is."

"Which is..." He trails off, looking around the loft mockingly. "I mean, what are you doing that's more important than helping your friends? Working at a lezzie bar and writing fanfiction? Don't you even care about Henry and Kurt?"

That son of a bitch knows just what buttons to push, and Santana's a little ashamed to admit he pushes the correct ones. "What kind of fucking question is that?"

"Exactly," he says, nodding with this grimy little smile stretched across his face. "Which is why I'm proposing an intervention, right here, right now. How fast do you think you can get Kurt over here?"

Santana doesn’t like Lawrence. At all. He's a sleazy scumbag who tricks people into doing his bidding and sleeps with anything that moves, and he lies and cheats and steals, but at this point, Santana's not much better. One good thing she can say about him is that he's a good friend to Henry, and that he always has his friend's best interest, and so Santana pulls out her phone and says, "Give me ten minutes."

It ends up taking Kurt twenty minutes to rush over, but he does come, and he's out of breath by the time he slides the front door open and shouts, "Where's my autographed copy of Liza Minnelli's Greatest Hits album?"

Lawrence places a hand on his hip and praises Santana with a pleased look. "That's what you said to get him here?" he asks her. "Liza?"

Kurt looks between them and then gapes in bewildered annoyance. "Are you telling me I rushed all the way here for no signed album?" he screeches, eyes bugging out of his head. "Santana, this better be good."

Lawrence steps forward. "Kurt, please have a seat."

"No."

"Fine. It's come to our attention that you plan on marrying my best friend," he says, as if reciting a speech he wrote hours beforehand. "But you do realize that once you marry him, you'll be marrying me as well."

Kurt chokes on a laugh. "Um. No," he chortles, shaking his head in amusement. 

"Dios mio—must I do everything around here?" Santana lifts a hand and gestures between herself and Lawrence. God, this is pathetic. "Kurt, this is an intervention."

Kurt continues to stand primly. "Excuse me?" he utters. 

Lawrence steps forward again. "No, excuse _me_ , Kurt, but—okay, I'm sorry, but this needs to be said," he exasperates, lifting his shoulders in apology. "Henry's leaving you."

Eyes wide, Santana turns to look at him. "Lawrence—"

"Sorry, man, but he told me to break the news because he didn't want to hurt your feelings."

"Is that so?" Kurt calmly wonders, and Lawrence nods with a half shrug. "Huh, funny you say that, because I was just with Henry flipping through a marriage catalogue when I got your text, and he actually warned me that this would happen, but you know what I said? I said, _no way, Santana's crazy, but she's not a freaking psycho_ ," he recites flatly, folding his arms over his chest. "Turns out, I was wrong. You're _both_ psycho."

Santana stiffens. "Kurt—" 

"What the hell don't you two understand when I tell you I am committed to Henry? I _love_ him. I am willing to take a chance, and Henry’s taking a chance on me.” Kurt lifts his chin and then looks down on them both with an _I’m better than you_ expression. “Do you two even know anything about that? Taking chances?" 

Kurt waits for an answer, but Santana honestly can't say she does. Taking chances seems to require some thought and time, but Santana just jumps into everything head first without thinking about how the outcome of her actions could affect her or the people around her. 

Lawrence doesn't say a word either, because obviously he doesn't have a clue. It sucks to admit this, but she and Lawrence are kind of similar in that regard. They go after what they want but hardly ever take a chance on anything, forever doomed to throwing away all the good they already have. 

Kurt brushes a piece of lint off his salmon-colored polo shirt. "Today, I took a chance and told my boss that I would have to start taking less hours as her intern now that I am getting married soon, and do you know what she did?" he asks them, but she and Lawrence stay quiet, either annoyed or too ashamed to speak up. "Isabelle offered to host the wedding at the Waldorf Astoria."

Lawrence squints. "You mean the hotel in Serendipity?"

Ignoring what probably sounds like a buzzing in his ear, Kurt scratches at his sideburns and continues, "While Henry and I are planning to spend the rest of our lives together, you two are wasting your time trying to keep people like us apart. Please do mankind a favor and do something for yourselves for once, you selfless do-gooders you," he mocks, raising both eyebrows as he heads towards the front door. "I have a fiancé to go home to."

Santana pauses and... _wait_. "Home?" she questions, stopping Kurt on his way out. 

He pauses near the foyer with a curious look. "What, Rachel didn't tell you? Oh, how could I forget, you guys aren't on speaking terms again," he sighs, and Santana grinds her molars, set on kicking his scrawny little sarcastic ass into next Tuesday, but Lawrence is here, so that's a witness. Kurt continues, unperturbed, despite the murderous look Santana's giving him. "I have to admit, this has been the longest you and Rachel have gone without getting into a needless fight," he mentions, almost in a way that's commemorating. "What was it this time? Let me guess, you accidentally saw her naked again."

Suppressing her rage, Santana ignores him and takes a good look around to discover the loft is void of all Kurt's belongings. "You moved out?" she concludes, a little sick at the thought that Rachel's been here all alone for the past week. 

"You catch on quick, Satan." Kurt wraps a hand around his satchel and tugs on the strap before looking between Santana and Lawrence one more time with a steady, penetrating look. "I'm marrying Henry. He's the love of my life, even though he likes to leave his socks around and doesn't get what's so special about Liza Minnelli—which I'm still working on with him. _You_ ," he points at Santana, "go makeout with your girlfriend or something, and _you_ ," he looks to Lawrence with a roll of his eyes, "go fuck a tree hole, for all I care. I'm out, bitches."

The door clangs shut behind him, and Santana shares a look with Lawrence before kicking him out of their loft. 

What a fucking waste of her time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm trying to push these chapters out as fast as possible, so I'm sorry if there are any errors. i'll edit the grammar mistakes and misspellings after another quick read-through.


	4. the changes that come when your life’s becoming hell

Henry calls her when she's on the bus, on her way to work for a six hour shift. She's exhausted from yet another sleepless night, and although sleeping on the bus is never a good idea, Santana closes her eyes anyway, until her phone vibrates in her pocket and she checks the caller ID with an irritated grunt.  ****

"What?"

"You have some nerve," he answers, clearly stifling his exasperation. "Just gonna disappear off the face of the earth without an explanation as to why?"

"Henry—"

"What, no dumb nicknames today?” He’s baiting her, because he’s angry about being ignored, but Santana’s got more pressing things to worry about, so she sighs loudly through the phone speaker just so he’ll know how _not_ into talking she feels right now. But Henry keeps ranting on anyway. "I’ve been calling you for a week, Santana. I finally got into contact with Rachel this morning, but she said you've been staying with Cole. What the hell?"

Santana drags the tip of her tongue over her front teeth. "What, I'm not allowed to crash with any other friends except you? Had no idea you were so possessive over me, O'Brien."

She can hear Henry breathing heavily in the background, and then he calmly asks, “What is wrong with you?” 

His constant serenity during heated arguments only succeeds in making Santana even more upset. “What’s wrong with _you_?” she echoes, pushing the question back on him, because she’s confrontational, and she hates it when the spotlight is on her problems and her problems only. 

“Sorry, can't help you there," Henry says with false levity in his voice. "We psychologists are horrible at self-analysis.” 

“You’re not a psychologist, Henry.” 

She doesn’t feel like playing along today. On this crowded bus, she’s squished between a fat man and a wrinkly old woman. One of them smells like goat cheese, and the other smells like chilled hot sauce, and it’s seriously burning her nostrils. 

Annoyed, Henry releases a blustering sigh. "Santana, just talk to me. What the hell is going on?"

If he wanted to know what she’s been up to, all he had to do was ask nicely. "Well, let's see. I'm fucking exhausted. I have work in fifteen minutes. I'm a fucking loser. I have no self-control. I can't keep promises," Santana lists off, counting off her fingers mockingly. "Keeping up, buddy?"

"Not really."

The bus comes to a slow stop a block away from Silk, and Santana stands from her seat as people start shuffling off. "Maybe I'll explain later, maybe I won't, but I gotta go, Henry.” 

She hangs up before he has a chance to respond, but her phone vibrates a minute later with a text message that reads, _you can’t run away from your problems forever bc sooner or later they’ll catch up with you_. 

The text message goes ignored. 

\--

She goes to work and it’s like every other night. She can’t look Todd in the eye, but he stares at her with this knowing expression at every opportunity, as if he knows what she did, except that’s impossible, because the only two people who know—unless her roommate opened her big mouth—is Santana and Rachel. 

Thankfully, Todd is in and out of the storage room throughout their shift, so she doesn’t have to face the guilt for six hours straight tonight. Every time he disappears to unload a truck in the alleyway, Santana sneaks herself a drink. She knows she’s abusing her job, and it’s against policy to be drunk during work hours, but Jenn's words keep echoing through her ears about how she wants to know Santana so much and get into her head, yet all Jenn would find is someone not even worth getting to know.

Her customers have just as many issues as her, and she can’t take it anymore. It’s too much crap for just one person to deal with, so she sneaks shot after shot, and she may even go a little overboard, hoping to drown out the sound of music and laughter and voices. 

She thinks she’s being sneaky and stealth—but seriously, how secretive can one be after a good seven shots? Despite her ability to get drunk and to even continue serving drinks, Todd still sidles up to her at around midnight with a grimy smirk, and then shakes his head in disappointment. 

Santana levels Todd with a look, but her balance is off, and she ends up rocking into him with a giggle. 

Todd stares at her, clearly annoyed if the pinched expression on his face is anything to go by. "You're fucking trashed,” he says, and then glances over his shoulder before peering back down at Santana and lowering his voice. “You better be lucky you’re dating my sister, or else I would’ve told the boss about your inappropriate drinking habits ages ago. Give me your phone. I'm calling you a cab.” 

It’s the nicest he’s been to her in weeks, but she rolls her eyes anyway, because _it figures_. "Oh, look at Todd. Such a good guy. Always doing the right thing,” she mocks in a singsong, still swaying unsteadily. "Giving out freebies and calling cabs and protecting your sister." He's such a goody-two shoes. _Todd and Jenn_. Super twins. Jesus Christ. "Well, too bad you couldn't protect your sis from _me_ , Sweeney.”

Todd runs a hand through his short haircut. “Give me your phone, Lopez,” he repeats.

Santana takes her phone out of her back pocket but then hides it behind her, snickering when Todd tries to reach for it and ends up hitting his hand on the counter. "You and Jenn are both such good people, and you know what, it pisses me the fuck off,” she bites, twisting and turning as Todd grabs at her arm and struggles to take her phone. "How is any human being supposed to live up to your Good Samaritan shit? _Not me_. I don't even know why I try, because you were right. I'm not Jenn's type _at all_.” She pauses, eyes narrowed on the ceiling as she thoughtfully taps a finger on the screen of her phone. "Or maybe I am. Women have cheated on her before. So, why not me, right?"

Todd freezes. Nostrils flared, he takes a steady step backwards and furrows his thick eyebrows. "Santana, you better not be saying what I think you're saying."

"Is that another threat, Sweeney?” Santana snorts when his face starts to turn red. Such a fucker. "Well, I guess it doesn't matter anyway, because yes, Toddrick, I _am_ saying what I better not be saying. Not everyone can be as sickeningly faithful as you and your sister." 

The two of them have attracted quite the crowd, but Todd's none the wiser as he crosses his arms and stands tall before her. He’s forgotten all about extracting her phone and is now breathing hotly, eyes squinted with horrid disbelief. "You didn't," he mutters warningly. 

"I _did_ ,” Santana admits, allowing the alcohol to work as a truth serum. Something in the back of her head warns her not to say anything more, but she's incredibly juiced, and unfortunately, keeping secrets isn't really her biggest talent when she can barely stand on two feet. "Remember that fucking hot brunette—my best friend, my roommate? The one you tried to pick up last month? Well, she didn't want to sleep with _you_ , but guess what?” Santana laughs and then hunches over, clutching at her stomach. "We fucked, and it was so fucking good."

Todd doesn’t say anything for a long time. He just stares at her, and Santana would prepare herself for a slap in the face if this were a woman she was talking to, but Todd would never hit a girl. He’s too much of a frog prince to pull that kind of shit. 

"You know what, Santana?” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder as he steers her from around the counter and towards the door. "I was right. Jenn's too good for you. She always was, and I warned her, you know? I told her over and over again not to waste her time with your pathetic, womanizing ass, but Jenn's always been attracted to the less fortunate.”  

His hand is heavy on her shoulder, and Santana tries to shift away from his grasp, but Todd only holds on tighter as they squeeze through a throng of people dancing and laughing together. Her eyes glaze over and get stuck on the patrons enjoying their night and having a good fucking time, not a care in the world, and a bitter feeling falls over her like a shadow of dread. 

She wants to take back everything she just said, but something tells her it’s way too late for that. Todd knows, and he’s going to tell Jenn, thus taking away Santana’s opportunity to explain (as if she’d have _anything_ worthy of saying that could ever cover her drunken ass now). 

Santana and liquor have never been a great combo anyway. It forces her to do things she would never do sober—like kiss Rachel, or confess to Rachel how hot she is, or tell Todd that she cheated on his twin sister with her best friend. 

She’s already in deep shit, and there’s nothing she can do to turn back time, yet there’s no saying whether she’d even do that if ever given the chance. She liked being with Rachel—as she said, _it was so fucking good_. It was better than anything she’d done in a while. It made her feel alive, like a new person, with a new lease on life. It was a new experience, a new discovery, and not even sobriety could keep Santana from admitting that to herself.

Todd doesn’t loosen his grip—his fingertips only tighten, practically clawing into her flesh as the reprehensibly contained anger falls off his tongue. "It's a shame too, because Jenn really could have fixed you, but I guess you were just too broken from whatever slut made you this way,” he continues, and Santana bristles, and she chokes down a growl as her cheeks heat up with rage. "What's her name? It's Brittany, right? Jenn told me _all_ about the ex who fucked you over and dumped your ass for a—"

Santana spins around and winds up to punch him in the face, but her equilibrium is off, and she's unsteady on her feet. Somehow, her arm ends up flying a few inches to the left and—well, her fist connects with a face, but not Todd's face, and Santana barely gets a chance to apologize before the madwoman she hit is cursing her out, clawing at her face, and dragging her to the floor. 

Todd tries to separate them, and the bouncer from the door even runs in to help break up the fight, but before anyone can tear them apart, Santana pulls at the chick's hair and then receives a few blows to the face before earning herself a free ride to the police station. 

\--

The bitch doesn't press charges, so in return, Santana decides to just fuck it. A police record is the last thing she needs. Moping, she sits slumped beside a desk with an ice pack pressed to her throbbing face. She came away from the fight with a busted lip and a black eye, but she gave that stupid bitch a bloody nose, so she's not too bitter over it. 

Still, despite all her big talk about growing up in Lima Heights on the wrong side of the tracks, Santana's never actually been in a real fight before, excluding her brief slap fights and scuffles with Quinn and Zizes, respectfully. 

A policeman asks Santana who he should contact to come and pick her up since she has no money for a cab ride home, but she's still drunk, so she rattles off Rachel's cell phone number because it's the only one she knows by heart. She can only hear one half of the discussion, but it's over before it even starts, and then the officer hangs up, looks at Santana with an upturned nose, and says, "Your friend is on her way."

Santana mumbles something unintelligible back as she slumps to the side and then softly presses the ice pack against her eye again. It's pulsating to a steady beat, and her lip is still bleeding a little bit, but she doesn't complain—she just sits silently and watches hookers and robbers and petty thieves and muggers come and go, either in handcuffs or with a flip of their middle finger. 

She would laugh at all of them if she didn't have such a headache, but then again, the last thing she needs is to get beat up, twice in one night, so she stares down at her lap and scratches her nails against her ripped jeans until she hears Rachel's frantic voice asking the officer at the front desk of Santana's whereabouts. 

Santana stands and then almost stumbles sideways into the desk, but the policeman beside her wraps a hand around her forearm and helps her walk over to the front of the station. When their eyes meet, Rachel stares at her for a long moment, eyes wide and teary, like she can't quite believe what she's seeing, and shit—the bruising must look even worse than Santana originally thought. 

"Oh, Santana," Rachel coos, bringing her into a hug. Santana holds on limply and rests her face within the crook of Rachel's neck, grabbing at the back of her friend's jacket like a needy child, as the officer clears up a few things with Rachel before they can finally leave the station. 

Neither of them speak on the way home. Santana doesn't even know what she'd say—forget the fact she can barely form a single, coherent thought right now. It's hard to focus, but she can still tell what's going on around her. Rachel's grasping on to her hand for dear life, rubbing a thumb back and forth over the back of her hand. Santana looks down and narrows her eyes, but it's too dark for her to actually see. All she has is Rachel's touch, but that's all she needs for now. 

The taxi comes to a slow stop in front of their stoop, and Rachel helps Santana out and then up their seven flights of steps. It's not an easy venture at all, but Santana tries to sober up as much as possible to make it a little less difficult for her friend. She feels bad enough already for getting Rachel out of bed at one in the morning. The girl probably has a final in a few hours, but here she is, taking care of Santana _again_ when she has about a million other important things to worry about, like school and exams and _her fucking future_. 

Rachel doesn't ask what happened as she dumps Santana onto the couch and then rummages through the fridge for more ice. Santana tilts her head back and curls up in the blanket left on the sofa that always smells like Rachel. She feels like crying, but the room is spinning, and there's no time for tears right now. Something tells her that the saltiness of her cries would only just sting if they touched her busted lip anyway. 

Rachel returns with a bag of peas and a jar of peanut butter, and Santana winces in pain when her face crumbles up into an ugly cry. _Well, there goes not crying_. She fucking hates herself for it, but there's just no stopping the pathetic tears that start streaming down her cheeks as Rachel sits beside her and then shushes her gently with a pair of teary eyes of her own. 

Reaching over, Rachel lightly wipes Santana’s tears away and whispers, “I’m so sorry, Santana.”

She's tired of hearing other people apologize for her mistakes, and what's worse is that she doesn't even understand what Rachel's saying sorry for. None of this is Rachel’s doing. Santana got herself into this stupid mess, and it'd be so unfair of her to lay blame on Rachel when she didn't do anything wrong. 

Santana takes the bag of peas from off the coffee table with a sigh and then leans back against the sofa. “Berry,” she mumbles, hopelessly trying to speak through her intoxication as well as her fat lip. “W-what are you even apologizing for?"

Rachel skims her finger over the lining of Santana’s bruise. It hurts a little, but Santana closes her eyes at the feel of it. She’s being cared for and looked after, and this would usually feel so good if she wasn’t trumped with such nagging guilt. 

"Everything,” Rachel says, lips curving downward as a lone tear makes its way over the hill of her cheek. “This never should have happened. Not like _this_.” 

If it's one thing Santana absolutely can't stand and would try to prevent if she could, it would be Rachel crying. There is no good reason at all for why that gorgeous face should ever look sad or miserable, and so Santana scoots over and tries to soothe her, whispering, "Hey, hey, I-I know. Don't...don’t beat yourself up over this, Rach.” 

Rachel sniffles. “But Santana—“ 

"No, babe. _Please_ stop. If there's a-anyone to blame for this...it should be me.” 

Rachel just keeps shaking her head and then leans forward and cries into Santana's shirt. Her heart clenches in her chest, and it feels like she can barely breathe. She can almost hear her mother's hollow voice in her head, echoing on about consequences and broken hearts and the reality that everyone must face after giving into what they want. 

Maybe Santana should have taken her mother's words of wisdom a lot more seriously, because now she has a crying girl in her arms while her girlfriend is out there, probably wondering why Santana hasn't responded to a text that was sent at least ten hours ago—because now she's icing half of her face with a cold bag of peas, slowly giving herself a migraine by fighting the alcohol that's still coursing through her blood—because now there's a knock on the front door, and she and Rachel both stiffen in each other's arms before sharing a culpable look. 

There's no doubt in Santana's mind who it is, but Rachel looks confused at first, eyes focused on the door before trailing over to Santana in question. She doesn't say anything, and Rachel only stares at her and then nods a second later in realization. 

There's not much expression in Rachel's face. Santana used to be able to read Rachel so easily, but now she has no idea what's going on in her best friend's mind when Rachel gets up from off the couch to answer the door. 

It's Jenn. She's clutching on to her phone tightly, and her lips are pursed in tampered aggravation. Santana's never seen her look so uneasy before. She almost looks like she's about to explode, but with a quick intake of air, Jenn smiles at Rachel and then looks past her at Santana, who remains in the background with a stupid look as she lowers the bag of peas to her lap like a kid who just got caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 

"Sorry to stop by unannounced," Jenn's addressing Rachel, though her dark eyes remain pinned on Santana, "but I need to have a word with my girlfriend. _Alone_ ," she adds after a beat, refocusing her line of vision back on Rachel. 

It's quiet enough in the loft to be able to hear Rachel swallow audibly. She looks over her shoulder at Santana for conformation, to make sure she's okay with this, and Santana nods once before lowering her eyes, listening as Rachel grabs her coat and then reluctantly leaves. The door clangs shut behind her, and Santana chances a glance back up, only to find Jenn looking at her as if she doesn't even recognize her. 

She takes in Santana's appearance with squinted eyes, but an unreadable expression masks her concern. Santana's never seen Jenn like this before. She's usually so open and free and welcoming, but tonight it's different, and Santana stares at her, studies her, tries to read her mind, but Jenn has always been impenetrable against everything. She's small and bubbly, but she can hold her own, and Santana admires that. She really does. Until now, when she's the one who's up against it. 

Jenn shakes her head and then sits before Santana on the coffee table, not too close, but far enough away so that they don't have to breathe each other's air. 

"Jenn," Santana inquires, fiddling with the bag of peas in her hands. She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know what Jenn knows, how much she knows, but Jenn is still gentle and kind like always, smoothing her thumb over Santana's beaten face, and she winces in apology when Santana flinches at the touch. 

"Oh, sweetie," she whispers, and Santana thinks she's about to be patronized or coddled, but Jenn only looks back and forth between Santana's wet eyes before asking, "Why didn't you just tell me you were in love with Rachel?” 

Tears threaten to fall, but she stubbornly holds them back and says, "I'm not in love with her.” 

Jenn smiles a bit sardonically. "Well, you're not in love with me.” 

The air in the loft feels muggy and thick. Santana tries to breathe through it. "Todd told you what happened?” 

"Todd didn't have to tell me. A woman knows when she's being cheated on.” 

She doesn't mean to smile. It's not the reaction her brain sends to her body. She wants to frown or pout or grimace, but a lopsided smile spreads across her cheeks instead. But alas, she's not smiling because she's happy. It's one of those errant smiles that reveal every single thing you never wanted anyone to know— _everything_ , like how Jenn's right and how Santana's wrong. _Always_ wrong. 

Santana wrestles with the muscles in her face and dons a frown. "It was only one night and it was a mistake. It never should have happened," she says, practically repeating Rachel’s words from earlier, before reaching out for Jenn's hand, but the other girl flinches away and just looks at her. Santana rolls her eyes at herself and tries to explain. "We were desperate, and it wasn't supposed to go down like that.” 

Jenn presses her lips together so hard they turn white. “Then how was it supposed to _go down_ , San?" she asks, eyes narrowed thin, like she's trying to see straight through her. "I know you, Santana, and you wanted to have sex with her, but I also know that you have enough sense of mind and self-control to stop yourself, but you didn’t." 

Santana's cheeks burn and tears sting at the corners of her eyes, but Jenn doesn't seem to notice. She wants to deny it and tell Jenn that she's wrong, that she did stop herself, that she didn't lose control, but all of that would only be a lie. Just more lies. 

Jenn's right. Jenn's _always_ right. Santana did want to have sex with Rachel, and she had so many opportunities in which she could have stopped it from happening, stopped them both from going all the way, but Rachel was right there and _willing_ , no longer untouchable, no longer off limits, and finally Santana could have something, _someone_ , she wanted. Rachel was taking her seriously, for once, and Santana was actually enough for her. She was _more_ than enough. 

Jenn leans forward and rests a hand on Santana's knee—the touch burns through her jeans and sets her skin aflame, but it’s nothing in comparison to another touch she knows _oh so well_ now. "I see the way you look at her. I don't know if it's love or lust, and you can deny your feelings all you want," she rushes to add, when Santana starts to shake her head in denial, "but there's something there between the two of you, and I refuse to be the third wheel any longer.” 

This is ridiculous—she's not in love with _Rachel Berry_. They may have something different between them, something special, this inexplicable connection that no one seems to understand, and of course they love each other, but it's not the love she used to feel for Brittany. She felt that love with her entire body. Her entire _soul_. 

Everything Brittany did, every move she'd make, would have Santana melting into a puddle on the floor—every smile or laugh would have her heart souring or breaking or shriveling or trembling. Brittany's presence would always bring Santana this striking sensation of pain, but when she's with Rachel, there is no pain, and you can't have love without pain, right? 

Santana places her hand over the warm fingers on her knee. She squeezes tight and tries to pull Jenn closer, but the other girl just whimpers sadly and then tugs her hand away. "Jenn," she says, almost pleading with her.

"I love you so much, Santana, so much," Jenn murmurs, her voice low and kind of empty, and Santana cringes internally, because it should never feel so horrible to be told she's loved. It used to feel like heaven when Brittany would say the words, but now it's like she's hearing something else.

She's waiting for the but, because there's always a but. _But you broke my heart, Santana. But you fucked Rachel, Santana. But you're a fucking mess, Santana_. Except Jenn says none of that. She's not cruel or mean. She's not spiteful or punishing. All she does is quickly wipe at a runaway tear and tell the truth. 

"Please, never call me, talk to me, or show up at my apartment ever again," she instructs, folding her hands tightly and primly in her lap. Her brown eyes glisten wetly, but she holds back the tears as much as she can, and only a few escape and slide down her rosy cheeks as she whispers, "I'd also like to advise you to stay away from my brother because he kind of wants to kill you right now.” 

A thick silence falls between them, but Santana quickly breaks it with a scoff. "So, that's it?" she asks, pinching her eyebrows together. "We're not gonna work this out?” 

Jenn huffs out a sad laugh, as if that's the last thing she wants to do. "I told you I loved you, and you _slept_ with your best friend," she says, and Santana tries not to shrink in on herself, but it happens anyway—she's never felt so small and worthless in her life. "It's going to happen again if you continue to live here, Santana, and I can only take getting my heart broken by you once. I thought you of all people would be able to…" Jenn doesn't finish what she wants to say, only bites down on her lip and sighs, "But I guess I was wrong.” 

Santana's been dumped before—and she wonders briefly if it's karma that the only two other people who have broken up with her before Jenn somehow ended up _together_. Although it sucks each and every time, this at least hurts a little bit less than Brittany's rejection, because now she deserves it. She deserves the pitiful glance, the harsh truth, and the crushing guilt for making someone so wonderful feel like they’re second best. 

Still, she feels compelled to say, "I didn't mean for any of this to happen." It probably means shit to Jenn right now to hear this, but the girl has to know that she tried, that she didn't come into this relationship with a distinct plan to break her heart. 

Jenn nods and then stands up to place a gentle kiss on Santana's cheek. "I know, honey, I know," she practically coos with this miserable smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, slowly skimming her thumb over Santana's brow. "Take care of yourself, and don't get your heartbroken too, because _God_ , it really hurts."

Santana nods, but she hates the fact that she's breaking so many hearts tonight—Jenn's heart, her own heart, and Rachel's heart too, maybe, but she can't really be sure. Her best friend is just as confused as Santana, but the biggest puzzle is probably how simple all of this is between them. Sex is just sex—a physical act performed between two or more people. Simple, right? Maybe even too simple sometimes. 

Her now ex-girlfriend leaves after giving her one more careful look, and Santana runs a tongue over the cut on her busted lip with a wince of pain once the front door clicks shut behind Jenn. 

She sits there for a long time, staring at the jar of peanut butter as she holds the bag of peas to her left eye. Time doesn't exist for a while, and Santana forces herself not to think as she gazes up at the crappy ceiling. There's a hole up there where a leak once was, and so Santana stares at that until she hears a chain of keys rattling in the front door. 

Rachel walks in. She looks at Santana, who's still slumped back in the same spot, right where Jenn left her. They share a long and tender look, and although it looks like Rachel wants to ask what happened, she doesn't—she just tentatively sits down next to her and then wraps an arm around Santana's back when she collapses into a fit of tears.

Rachel holds her as she cries. And she doesn't let go. 

\--

A close friend of Henry’s from the _New York Journal_ throws Kurt and Henry an engagement party at Callbacks. Lloyd shows up, and Santana considers going up to him to say that she fucked his girlfriend, but that's just plain rude, so she goes to find a corner to sulk in. 

For a while she just blankly watches Angela and Daniel play darts. She's pretty damn certain they're sleeping together—there's just something between them: it's in their interactions, the way they're so open with each other, where they can just be themselves without any judgement or ridicule. 

There's only one person Santana has that kind of relationship with, but—well, it's complicated, and Santana's kind of over complicated. It's really annoying, actually—how a situation can seem so easy and simple on the outside, but if you look close enough, there's all of these difficulties and problems, and at the end of the day, it's just not worth sacrificing an amazing friendship over some casual sex. She's made that mistake with Brittany, Quinn, and now Rachel—it's about time she fucking learns her lesson. 

Henry and Kurt are being social butterflies, talking to anyone who will talk back; Cole and Gwen are laughing about something stupid, probably, over by the open bar; Rachel and Lloyd are rounding the pool table, and he's helping her learn how to shoot, which is just ridiculous, because Rachel's a little hustler when it comes to playing pool. 

Everyone seems to be having a grand old time, and Santana raises her glass to them. 

Lucky fuckers. 

Henry finds her some time later and hands her another drink, but the last thing she needs is to get drunk around all of these people. A reenactment of last Friday will not be happening, ever, so she just sets the drink down on the table beside her.  

"What's with the long face?” Henry wonders, blatantly staring at her bruises, but no one has asked her about them yet, and Santana has a strong feeling it was Rachel who told everyone to back off and not bother her about it. 

There's probably over a million reasons why she's not super cheery right now—one, she just got fired from what was perhaps her favorite job ever, and two, "I got beat up, Bozo," she says, gesturing to her swollen face, as if it's not already noticeable. "Should I look happy about that?” 

"But it's my engagement party," Henry says, shrugging a shoulder. "A smile wouldn't hurt.”

Santana rolls her eyes at his neediness. "Actually, a smile would probably rip my lip in half," she jokes, sucking her lower lip into her mouth for a moment. 

Henry doesn't laugh—he just looks at her bruised face even closer, eyes lowered in concern. After a moment of obnoxiously staring at her, Henry glances over his shoulder and then whispers, "Hey, I think I should warn you. There are rumors circulating.” 

That’s fucking wonderful—it's only been a week and the damn tabloids have already spun a story around her and Jenn’s breakup. "Rumors?" Santana's eyes widen, and the bruise beside her temple throbs painfully, but she ignores the sensation, instead opting to throw back a gulp of liquor with a painful wince. _Gah_. That smarts. "About what?"

Henry looks around again and then leans in even closer. "Domestic violence," he tells her, and then adds, “Relationship abuse.” 

It takes a second to process that, but then. "You think Jenn did this to me?" Santana laughs, pointing at her face, but Henry just nods seriously, lips twisted to the side as if he's about to be sick. "Jeez, for a gay man, you suck at gossip. Jenn didn't hit me, you moron. I got into a little scuffle at Silk with some husky bitch I accidentally punched while trying to knock out Sweeney," she explains, rolling her eyes at his stupidity, as well as her own. But Jenn wouldn't hurt a fucking gnat, and it kind of sucks that people think that sweet girl did this to her. 

"You tried to hit Todd?" Henry balks unattractively. " _Jenn's_ Todd?” 

Santana tips her head in acknowledgement. "That's right." 

He frowns, puzzled. "Why were you trying to hurt Todd?” he asks, as if Todd’s this gentle giant that no one would ever want to hurt. He’s a standup guy when he wants to be, sure, but he’s not all cupcakes and rainbows either. The guy can really lay down some salty words, and it cuts deep—deep enough to make Santana want to take a swing at him. 

But instead of relaying all of that shit, because it’s way too much to rehash right now, she just shrugs and says, "I was drunk.”

Henry studies her with a disbelieving look. "I've seen you drunk before, Santana, and it usually ends with you crying yourself to sleep, not in a cat fight," he mutters, clearly not believing one word out of her fat mouth. "So, I'll ask again, what the hell is going on?” 

She considers lying, but really, enough of that shit. "You can't tell Kurt," she tells him first, just as a precaution. 

"Can't tell Kurt what?” 

She gives him a pointed look. "Obviously you have to promise you won't tell first,” Santana scoffs, and after a moment, Henry sighs but reluctantly agrees with a slow nod. "I...slept with Rachel," she reveals after a moment of deliberation, because it's still a secret even though Jenn knows—Rachel hasn't told Lloyd yet, for whatever reason, and it’d be plain rude to tell the kid what happened before his own girlfriend breaks the news—but Santana knows Henry’s good at keeping secrets, so whatever. Can’t hurt if only one other person knows.  

Henry looks at her incredulously. “Shut _up_. You two…" His eyes widen even further until there’s more white than green visible. "W-when did this happen? How? Does Jenn know? And w-what about Lloyd?” 

"Three weeks ago. I have no fucking clue. Jenn broke up with me. I'm still trying to decide whether or not I should go up to Higgins and say, _'I fucked your girlfriend, hard, and she liked it.’_ " 

A freckled nose crinkles in obvious disapproval. "While I'd surely appreciate the drama, you of all people don't really need another black eye,” he tells her, eyeing the bruise even closer now that he knows it’s not a wound of abuse. "You'd look like a raccoon.” 

Santana huffs and then slaps Henry’s hand away when he tries to touch her face. "Please, Higgins would never hit a lady.” 

"I'm not talking about Lloyd. Rachel would smack the shit out of you if you did that.”

Rachel's a pacifist, so that couldn’t be any farther from the truth, but honestly, "That'd be pretty hot.” Neither of them have ever hit each other, but—well, Santana's not going to lie and say she's never considered BDSM. There’s just never been anyone she trusted enough to _go there_ with.

"But seriously, Santana,” Henry continues, breaking her out of her less than appropriate thoughts. "What happened between the two of you to…" 

"Fuck?” she prompts, tracing a random pattern on the table, and Henry rolls his eyes at her vulgarity but then nods with shrug. Santana gently scratches at her itchy black eye that's slowly been turning yellow as of late. "I could always blame it on the three beers I had, but I guess we were both just super horny."

Henry strokes at the orange peach fuzz on his chin like some damn psychologist—which again, he's not—and then asks, "Do you really believe that's the reason?”

She feels like tearing her hair out of her head in frustration, because _of course_ she believes it. Why the fuck would she lie after telling him one of her biggest secrets? “Not you too, Clifford,” Santana sighs, scoffing through a tired laugh. "First Jenn thinks I have feelings for Rach, now you?” 

"It _would_ explain a few things.” 

"I'm not in love with Rachel. She's practically straight.” 

Henry hums, eyebrows raised. "But _you're_ gay.” 

"And now that we've pointed out the obvious, would you be a darling a refill my drink?” 

Santana's uncomfortable and irritated with this needless interrogation, and so she smiles tightly and then lifts her empty glass from off the table. Henry flutters his long red eyelashes in annoyance but slides out of the booth and then heads towards the bar anyway, right where Rachel’s standing, probably ordering a drink for herself and Higgins. 

Santana tries not to look over in that direction, but—it’s _Rachel_. They haven't spoken much since the night Santana got fired, beat up, almost arrested, and then dumped—Christ, that was a really bad day for her—but she did move back into the loft since then, and what's even better is that she gets to sleep in Kurt's bed now, which is a million times more comfortable than her stupid old mattress. 

Now that she and Rachel have made up—or whatever you want to call it—things have gone fairly back to normal. But obviously it'll never be like how it was. Santana now knows what Rachel looks like when she's coming, and it's an image she'll never be able to rid—not that she even cares to, honestly—and she's sure Rachel has bits and pieces of the same memories plastered in her brain as well. 

They never do talk about that night again. All Santana knows is that it happened and it was good while it lasted, but now that it's over they should both just move on. 

Santana tries not to be too obvious with her leering as she watches Rachel and Henry over by the bar. Smiling, they talk for a while and then Rachel takes a glass of cranberry-something out of Henry’s hand with a short glance over her shoulder, and Santana quickly looks away and then pretends to be busy with her phone. 

Eventually, Rachel makes her way over with the drink Henry was supposed to be fetching, and Santana bows her head and then curses under her breath. 

Henry, that son of a bitch. 

With a small smile, Rachel steals the seat beside her. "Henry said you weren't feeling well.” 

"Henry is a pathological liar,” she mutters, taking a sip of the cranberry vodka Rachel places on the table in front of her.

"Are we okay?” Rachel asks, after a few minutes of silence, and Santana’s forced to look Rachel in the eye, because those eyes are just so big and brown, and the way they’re peeking up at Santana from behind her long bangs always does something to Santana’s already poor resolve. 

Scooting over, she hesitantly slides an arm around Rachel’s shoulders to bring her closer. “Of course we’re okay, Rach," she says, her voice low.

Rachel watches her closely. "Are you lying?” 

"I'm not the pathological liar. Henry is.” 

" _Santana_.” 

Santana smiles though a pout. God, she’s only teasing—can’t anyone take a joke anymore? "Like I said before, it was just an impulsive, heat of the moment thing,” she reasons, fighting to keep her hand off of Rachel’s thigh, because Rachel’s still taken, but if she wasn’t—well, fuck, that's not even an issue, so she's not going to bother entertaining the thought.

Rachel looks down at her hands. "Santana, I—well, I…" 

Distracted, Santana finds a more appropriate location for her hand at Rachel’s side. “Yeah, Rach?”

She looks like she wants to say something important, but instead, what comes out is, "I'm sorry Jenn broke up with you because of what happened.” 

Santana’s expecting her heart to sink into her stomach, but somehow this breakup hasn’t affected her as badly as the ones in the past. But let’s be real, she _did_ cheat on the girl after only two and a half months of dating, so it’s no wonder there’s not much pain behind hearing Jenn’s name. 

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault.” It’s like she’s been repeating this mantra for three weeks now, but Santana doesn’t want Rachel to feel the way she’s been feeling lately—lonely, disappointed, ashamed—so she says, "I'm pretty certain Jenn was going to end it before we—well, you know...did the horizontal tango?" Rachel giggles at her awkwardness, and Santana hopes her blush isn't too noticeable as she tilts her head down. "Anyway, this was the last fucking straw. We would’ve just ended up resenting each other anyway.” 

“Still.” Rachel somehow finds Santana’s hand and then squeezes tight. _Those damn brown eyes_. Santana can't look away from them. Ever. "I feel horrible. I mean, the guilt is killing me, and what we did—it really hurt somebody," she rambles, stopping short to catch her breath. “And Lloyd...well—”

Santana gives Rachel a tender look. "He deserves to know.” 

“Yeah,” she says, catching Santana's hand at her side when it instinctively slides a little too low. 

"But you're not gonna tell him.” 

Conflicted, Rachel nibbles on her bottom lip. "I will. Eventually…" 

There's not much else she can say to that other than, "Okay.” 

Santana turns to look out on to the dance floor, taking in the sight of their friends swaying together, all paired off—Angela and Daniel, Henry and Kurt, even Cole and Gwen, which Santana will surely rib Cole about later. She's distracted for a moment, until Rachel's eyes attach themselves to Santana’s profile. She can practically feel that burning gaze against her left cheek, and it makes her look over at Rachel with an arched brow. 

"Dance with me?” Rachel asks, eventually.

Santana's lips curve upward, and this feeling in her chest—it's almost pleasant. "Anything for you," she says, allowing Rachel to take her hand and then lead her out onto the dance floor. 

There’s a slow song playing, and it’s Lawrence who’s singing up on stage with Lloyd doing backup. Odd pairing, but Santana lets it go for now and wraps her arms around a slender waist and then tucks her face into Rachel’s neck. Over her shoulder, Santana catches Henry’s eye, and with a thumbs up, he winks at her, as if to say, _Who’s the bitch now?_

Santana allows herself to smile before flipping him off. Her friends are annoying, but God does she love them.


	5. though things are not what they seem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a doozy but i didn't want to keep splitting them in half because it'd just make the part super longer than the rest. so here you go!

Things are different. Rachel’s different—even after promising Santana that they're okay. But obviously _okay_ doesn’t mean they’re back to normal, because hardly anything goes back to normal.

Rachel looks at Santana differently. She talks to Santana differently. She even touches her differently. 

For the first few days after their dalliance, Santana had expected this—she expected the weird looks and the awkward pauses and the weak smiles that never seem to reach Rachel’s eyes anymore. But she never expected _this_. They’re still civil, and they talk about mundane crap, but Rachel’s hardly ever home anymore, out and about under the guise of going on auditions with Daniel. 

But Santana’s been through this before, with both Brittany and Quinn, so she doesn’t let it dampen her mood. Each of her friends had reacted differently to sleeping with her. Brittany had immediately admitted to liking it and wanting more, while Quinn was a lot less forthcoming in her appreciation of the female body but had eventually decided they’d be better off as just buddies without the fucking. 

Rachel, on the other hand, has gone the avoidance route, which she tends to do a lot, so it’s not really much of a surprise. Santana doubts she’s even doing it on purpose. They’ve just fallen out of sync at the moment, but once enough time passes, they’ll be back to—what Kurt likes to call—their nauseatingly touchy and boundless selves. Hopefully.

Days ago, when Rachel had asked Santana whether they were okay, and Santana had responded with a smile and a nod of reassurance, she’d thought that’d be the end of this. 

But they’d had sex. They’d stripped down, completely sober, and revealed a naked part of themselves only past lovers have ever seen. They'd gotten off together while howling out each other’s names in the dead of night, with passion and desperation in their eyes after every stroke of a hand, or caress of a cheek. 

It was—well, okay, so maybe it wasn’t _just sex_ , and maybe it was a long time coming, but Rachel said they were okay. She can’t go taking that back now. Not after everything Santana’s gone through with losing Jenn and her job all in one fucking night.

Rachel never talks about her auditions when she gets in, choosing instead to head right into the shower, and Santana doesn’t want to come across pushing or overbearing in any way, but she still wants to be a good friend, so she intercepts Rachel in the hallway and asks her how the auditions went. 

Rachel gets this look on her face, eyes downcast, lips pressed together and turned in, and then says, “How about we discuss it over dinner?” It all sounds so proper and cordial, and not at all how she and Rachel usually are. They’re the type who flop over each other on the couch as they munch on their microwave TV dinners and complain about their day while watching Shark Tank. 

They never _discuss_. Never. But Santana’s trying to make this work. She’s trying to fend off the awkwardness, so with a smile and a small nod, she agrees and then gets back to that annoying job search on her Mac. 

Over dinner, on their separate sides of the couch, they _discuss_ Rachel’s auditions. _Rise and Shine_ is the name of one of the productions, which honestly sounds super gay, Santana would know, but Rachel doesn’t seem too into it anyway. Then there’s another one that she auditioned for about a week ago but hasn’t heard anything back from yet. " _In the Heights_ ," Rachel says, when Santana asks what it’s called. “But I doubt I’ll even get that one. My Spanish accent isn’t exactly up to par.”  

“I could’ve helped you with that, you know,” Santana says, after shoveling a forkful of greens into her mouth. 

But Rachel only smiles tightly and then shakes her head. "I did the best I could under recent circumstances."

Under recent circumstances? Her heart drops a little at that, but she brushes it off. Little by little, they’ll get through this. If she repeats the mantra enough times, maybe it’ll eventually become true. 

“The most recent show I auditioned for is a revival of _Rent_ ,” Rachel continues, actually allowing herself to smile a little bit in her subdued excitement. “But it’s only an Off-Broadway production funded by NYADA. Nothing big, but—“

“—nothing small, either,” Santana finishes for her, and Rachel smiles again before silently digging back into her pasta salad.

Santana doesn’t pray much, but she does ask the big man upstairs to make this happen for her roommate. It’s the least He can do after all the shit Rachel went through in high school. 

\--

They have to find a new bar after the whole ‘Santana got arrested and fired' thing. Cole’s been coming to this place called O'Malley's for some time now, so Santana gives it a shot. It’s not a gay bar or a lesbian nightclub, but it’s a pretty low-key, swanky joint with smooth jazz playing through the speakers as open mic night participants croon on about their sorrowful love lives in poetic verses. 

It’s relaxing, actually, which is a big and necessary change from all of the hoopla and commotion at Cobblestones and Silk. 

Maybe she’ll fill out a job application. 

“Wow, so you and Rachel?” Cole drawls, after Santana finishes detailing the past few weeks and why exactly she had to crash on Cole’s couch.

Santana can only roll her eyes in response to Cole’s dramatics. “Oh, please. Don’t act like you didn’t already know.”

Cole has the worst poker face. Inside, she has this way of losing herself to her consuming mind, but despite this nature, her face is always open and expressive—how she feels is usually always plastered right on her face, making her very readable. It’s no surprise Cole knew what was going on with Santana, and Santana knew that Cole knew, so really, this conversation is kind of pointless. 

“Well, don’t hold out,” Cole raises her eyebrows and then leans forward on her elbows. “How was it? And is she as good as I imagine she is?”

“Wait,” Santana mumbles, after a second, “You’ve…”

“I’m gay, she’s hot. Of course I’ve thought about it," Cole says, completely unashamed. "I probably would’ve even gone after Rachel if I didn’t believe you had a thing for her.”

Santana pinches her eyebrows together and tries to hide her anxiety with a shaky laugh, but c’mon, Rachel and _Cole_? Hell no. Even if Rachel wasn’t already taken, Santana would never allow it. Blood rushes to the tips of her ears, causing them to heat, but Santana only releases a deep breath to keep her voice steady when she says, “Cole, please stop talking. I don’t…” She can’t even remember how many times she’s gone over this, but she swears on her great-grandfather’s grave that this will be the last. “For the last fucking time, Cole, I don’t have a thing for Rachel.”

“Then why did you sleep with her?”

Stumped, Santana falls silent for a moment, thoughtful. “We just—...I was desperate!” she practically whines in a loud whisper. “What is it with you and Henry? _Jesus_. Can’t a girl simply want to fuck her best friend just for the hell of it?”

“Yeah, no," Cole says, knocking back a gulp of beer. "I’m pretty sure I’ve seen all there is. Haven’t seen that, though.”

Uncomfortable, Santana changes the direction in which this conversation is going and opts to distract Cole by answering her earlier question. “I actually didn’t think we’d go, you know— _all the way_. When she kissed me, sure, it took me by surprise, but then we didn’t stop kissing, and it kinda just…happened.”

She’s expecting another rebuttal, because that kind of thing doesn’t just _happen_. There’s a process, and then there’s a thought behind the process that prompts two people to unclothe and then fuck like rabbits, but Cole only looks at her with this lecherous grin—that girl really does have a one-track mind. “But how was she?” Cole asks again.

“I mean—well,” Santana shrugs, noncommittally. “She’s decent.” Dark eyes narrow, and Santana allows her eyes to roll away towards the stage, cheeks aflame in either embarrassment or shyness. Perhaps both. 

Okay, so, honest to God? She never actually thought she'd go there with Rachel, but now that she has, she really wouldn't mind going there again. She craves it, actually, but Rachel's still with what's-his-face, and who's to say she would even be cool with that sort of arrangement? They're best friends, sure, but sex almost messed up that friendship the first time—Lord only knows what a repeat performance would do. 

“Fine, whatever," Santana mutters, ignoring the knowing look on Cole's face. "It was fucking amazing, okay? I can’t stop thinking about it, but it’ll never happen again. It can’t.”

Arching a brow, Cole laughs hesitantly, not understanding one bit. “Why the fuck not?”

Santana had wanted things to go back to normal, but it’s now a given that that’ll never happen. They’ve seen too much of each other—done too much _with_ each other—for that to ever fly. “It’ll only ruin our friendship.”

“Or it’ll improve it.”

Santana smirks and says, “You’re a bad influence.” 

The sex was great, clearly, but that's not the kind of thing Rachel takes into consideration. She's the type who wants to be in love with the person she's intimate with, and Santana gets that, of course. She'll even admit that it's better with feelings. 

But there was a certain kind of exhilaration that came with being with Rachel. They know each other so well, and to discover what makes her best friend tick, moan, keel over, sigh, _gasp_ —it's just…it’s something Santana’s only ever experienced twice before in her life, and she’s missed it. 

She wants more of it. But obviously Rachel doesn’t want that. It was a one time thing. No more. Never to happen again. Santana has to remember that. “It’s over, Cole,” she sighs, lifting her dry martini to her lips. “Besides, Rachel's still with Higgins. If we were gonna make this thing into a thing, it would’ve already happened again.”

Cole smirks, obviously not hearing one word out of Santana's mouth. “I bet you two were so hot together. If you ever do plan on making that thing into a thing, don’t hesitate to let me know. I’d be so game to join in on the fun."

There’s an odd burning in Santana's chest at Cole's proposal, and it makes her feel uneasy. To push it away, she masks the pain with a forced laugh. “Ew, don’t be fucking weird,” she says, throwing an olive at Cole’s forehead.

\--

Rachel gets the understudy role of Maureen in _Rent_ , and she comes home with tears in her eyes. 

At first, Santana thinks something bad happened, and her protective tendencies immediately flare up, but instead of pouty lips and big sad eyes, Rachel's smiling and giggling to herself as she runs into the living area, squealing cutely before tackling Santana against the couch in a leaping hug. 

It's the most open and forthcoming she's been with Santana in two weeks, and it's not only a surprise—it's a fucking miracle, and she can only laugh, joyously, as she congratulates Rachel for showing those directors who's boss.

In Santana’s opinion, Rachel should already be a star on Broadway. Even in their sophomore year, the girl was incredible. She never would've admitted it back then, because she was a bitch, and Rachel was super annoying, but now it comes out of her mouth like jello. 

She doesn't even have to think twice before telling Rachel, "You're a fucking star."

Rachel blushes a little and says, “Flatterer.”

“Maybe,” Santana says with a shrug, "but only for you.”

\--

Two days later, the news of their breakup practically cracks the internet. It's all over the tabloids, and Santana is forced to walk around with a cap and sunglasses for at least a week before everything dies down. The scandal of how Santana Lopez cheated on Jenn Malone is in every newspaper and magazine, on every newsstand and in every corner store. The story follows her wherever she goes. She can’t get away from it. 

 _The Huffington Post_ and the _NY Daily News_ get everything entirely wrong. Most likely on purpose, too. According to their sources, Santana was a serial cheater who slept with at least seven other girls before getting caught fucking one of Jenn’s best friends in her own bed. 

It’s complete and utter bullshit, and Santana kind of wants to sue for slander, but then again, who’s going to believe the cheater, right? At the end of the day, she was unfaithful. The story ends the same way. 

She wonders briefly who could have informed the media. Rachel would never, Henry’s not really one for gossip, and Cole wouldn’t even know who to tell, so Santana just assumes it was somebody on Jenn’s side. Probably Todd, if she’s thinking logically. Sure, the news might embarrass Jenn, but with that, it completely tarnishes Santana’s reputation, where it’ll now be absolutely impossible for her to meet new women and do the same thing to them that she did to his sister. It makes sense, she guesses, but that doesn’t stop her from being pissed about it.

After not hearing from some of her high school friends in months, suddenly she's receiving a multitude of text messages and voicemails from both Mercedes and Tina, those nosy bitches, wanting the scoop right from the main source, but Santana’s too embarrassed to answer their calls. She can only imagine what they’d say, not to mention they'd want to know with whom she cheated. 

That’s something she’d never tell them. Not a chance. She’s definitely not ashamed of being with Rachel, but the last thing she wants to do is bring this situation back into their old, high school gossip circle. It’ll start with Mercedes and Tina before heading over to Artie, and then Artie will tell the newbies and Quinn's evil doppelgänger, Cat or something, and then since Cat's on the Cheerios, she'll more than likely tell Brittany, and Brittany— 

She can’t know about this.

No one can. Not even Kurt, who also tries to ask her about it with these big needy eyes, but she refuses to discuss it with anyone except Henry and Cole. Honestly, Santana’s a little surprised Rachel hasn’t told him yet, but maybe it’s different for Rachel. While Santana may not be ashamed of whom she shares her bed with, Rachel might just well be. 

\--

The wedding invites go out the day before Santana starts her summer courses at NYU. If she didn’t already have enough stress on her shoulders, the reminder of her friends’ upcoming nuptials weigh down the pressure even more. 

She still believes they’re rushing things, and that Kurt's so not ready to tie the knot, but Henry’s a good guy, the best guy she could ever imagine for Kurt, and really, it’s their lives, their futures they’re risking, so why should she give a shit? 

Unlike Santana, who’d rather throw her invite out the window, Rachel gets super excited when she opens up the invitation and then immediately calls to RSVP, as if Kurt and Henry don’t live ten minutes away and see her everyday. 

Santana can only smile with a roll of her eyes, watching in amusement when Rachel juggles the phone between her ear and shoulder as she uncaps a pen to jot down the date on their calendar in the kitchen. 

\--

She needs a new job. _Stat_. These bills aren’t going to pay themselves, and it’s going to be especially hard to keep up financially now that Kurt's moved out. To help with the transition, he put in for the rest of this month, but after that, she and Rachel are all on their own. 

She’s only taking three courses this summer, which won’t exactly put her where she needs to be in order to graduate on time, but it’s the best she can do for now, what with searching for a job and having to pay half her school tuition on her own. She’s saved up a lot from what she’s made at Cobblestones and Silk over the last few months, but that’s not even close to enough. 

It’s a humbling thought when Santana comes to realize her toughest years are ahead of her. 

Never mind that, but the transition from high school to college is not an easy one. Santana never thought it'd be a breeze, exactly, but she didn't think it would be this fucking hard either. 

Her teachers don't give a fuck about whether she understands what they're teaching, her classmates are all selfish little pricks who never want to share their goddamn notes because she’s _that girl_ , the one who cheated on the Princess of Manhattan, and her search for a job has become so fucking frustrating that Santana is literally running on three hours of sleep. 

Overdue assignments litter the floor of the living room, and although Rachel despises messes, she hasn’t said a word. 

And thank God. All she needs is Rachel up her ass right now. 

Maybe she should have stayed in Louisville with the promise of that full scholarship. At least then she wouldn't have to work her butt off just to pay a tuition to get a degree that she'll probably have no use for once she graduates. 

Now that it’s summer break for NYADA, Rachel's done with classes for now, but she informs Santana over dinner one night that Miss July is allowing her to practice her choreography in the dance studio after daily rehearsals are over. 

It doesn’t get past Santana that after winter break, Rachel had suddenly stopped complaining about her evil dance instructor. For most of the first semester, the woman tortured Rachel and was on her back about every little thing, but now she’s helping Rachel with choreography on her off hours? 

Santana believes in turning over a new leaf and all that, and maybe she and Rachel just started off on the wrong foot, but the whole thing just rubs Santana the wrong way. Her Mexican third eye has a knack for sensing these types of things, and it’s never been wrong before. 

Not horribly wrong, anyway. 

\--

She could really use a good smoke right now. It’s cool out, so she could just go up to the rooftop and light up real quick, smoke a cigarette or two, and then burn it out on the stone ledge before anyone sees her. But Rachel has a nose like a hound. She’d smell it on Santana’s breath, her clothing. 

Basically, she'd never get away with it—not that she really wants to, anyway. It's already been over a month since she's quit. Starting back up again just because she’s a little stressed over school would do nothing but bring herself and the people around her disappointment. She always does this. She builds up people’s expectations just to let them down, and she’s tired of disappointing everyone she loves and cares for.

Santana curses under her breath as she deletes everything she just typed. This is probably the fifth time she's written the same damn sentence over, but the words just aren’t coming to her today. She’s supposed to be arranging a thirty minute film treatment for a script she’ll have to write as a final paper, but all she has down so far is _She was married to her husband for a good two hours before the world came to an end_. 

Maybe she’s been watching too many post-apocalyptic dystopian flicks, because those are literally the only ideas that have seemed to hit her. Her last film treatment was about an argumentative elderly couple who discovered a robot in their basement that would blow up if they didn’t quit their hostile shit. 

Her creative tank is absolutely empty. Her fingers glide over the keyboard on her laptop, but nothing appears on the screen before her. 

Footsteps shuffle into the living room from down the hall. They pause behind the couch where Santana is sitting and don't move for a long time. Santana can feel Rachel watching her, waiting for her to turn around and acknowledge her, but if Santana's being honest, she really doesn't have time for Rachel’s dramatics right now.

If whatever Rachel has to say is important, she'll speak up about it sooner or later. 

Rachel clears her throat. "Santana?" So it seems whatever this is about is important then. 

"Mhmm," Santana hums, determinedly glaring down at her laptop. If she doesn't finish this stupid treatment by tonight there's no way she'll ever get it done. She's procrastinated for a week and a half now, and this assignment is due in two days. Santana had thought that bad habit of hers was behind her now that she's a bonafide college student, but it seems bad habits die hard, like that itching urge she always gets to pick up a cigarette every time she's stressed out. 

"I—" Rachel shuffles her feet in front of the coffee table, and Santana sighs as she tries to concentrate on her next idea before she forgets, wishing Rachel would just spit it out already so she can get back to work. "I'm…—Santana, I’m late."

"Late for what?" Santana mutters, distracted, as she taps her pencil on her college-ruled notebook full of scribbles and scratches. "I thought you didn't have vocal lessons on Fridays anymore."

There's a frustrated huff from above, so Santana glances up to see Rachel's red-rimmed eyes for the first time. "Santana, I am _late_ ," Rachel repeats herself with this penetrating stare, and it only takes Santana five seconds of complete and utter silence to fully understand what's happening here. 

She jumps up from off the couch, eyes narrowed. "How late is late?" she asks carefully, slowly. 

Rachel takes a step back and wraps her arms around her stomach. "It's—" she stammers, rapidly shaking her head. "It's...almost been two weeks." 

In high school, Santana's period once skipped an entire month, but thankfully it was during senior year when she was dating Britt, so it's not like she thought she was preggers or anything, but Rachel…well, this is kind of different.

"I will kill him," she snarls, jaw clenched angrily as she stalks throughout the apartment, back and forth down the hallway. She never trusted that stupid Higgins with his ironed jeans and bushy eyebrows. She knew she hated his small, beady eyes and frumpy button-up shirts for a reason. Never trust a man with beady eyes. "I will hunt him down and twist his ball sack so fucking hard he will never be able to knock up another woman in his life."

Rachel shuffles after her, eyes watering so much her tears come down like bullets every time she blinks. "You can't blame Lloyd for this, Santana."

"The fuck I can." She throws her hands up in exasperation and blows a strand of hair out of her face. "If that nightmare son of a bitch can't hold his own jizz, what makes you think he can take care of a real life baby?"

"Santana, you need to slow down," Rachel advises, her voice shaking with each word. "There might not even be a baby."

Baby. 

A baby. 

They can't handle a fucking baby. 

Santana can barely prioritize her job search and school work—there is absolutely no way they would be able to take care of a baby when they can barely take care of themselves. And Rachel can't give birth. She's so small Santana doubts the poor bastard child would even be able to fit inside, never mind come out. 

See, this is why she’s gay. Well, not entirely, but _penises_ —seriously, all those things ever do is cause trouble. They invade your private areas, make a fucking home there, and then plant little soldiers of life-ruiners into women's vaginas. Santana cannot, for the life of her, understand how anyone could ever let a penis into their body without a backup plan or a fucking cond—

"Wait—" Santana starts, eyes widening with a sudden, disturbing thought. "Rachel, please tell me there was a hole, or that it ripped, or there was some kind of malfunction, but do not tell me you had sex with him without using a condom.”

That week Miss Holiday came to McKinley and taught SexEd was one of the most enlightening weeks of her life. Not only did she come to terms with being a lesbian, but she also learned all about the different forms of birth control—not that she needed them anymore—and that a condom is not even 100% effective, so just imagine how risky it is to have sex without a condom at all?

And of course Rachel knows this. Rachel knew this even before Miss Holiday came breezing through their school, so it’s truly astounding when she only looks at Santana with a pained expression, lips clamped shut as she leans against the back of the couch. She doesn't say a word, but it's the loudest confession Santana's ever heard. 

Disappointment. It’s the first word that comes to mind. Hypocrisy. That’s the second word. 

"Rachel," Santana sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration, because if she's ever seen a case of the pot calling the kettle black, this right here is it. She can't even count the amount of times Rachel's scolded her for not being more health conscious and safe when it comes to the women she sleeps with, and now _this_? She honestly thought she'd never see the day. 

Rachel looks like she's been caught naked in the middle of an orgy. "Look," she says meekly, bowing her head as she hooks an unruly strand of hair behind her ear. "The last thing I need right now is to be reprimanded for not practicing safe sex."

Santana just stares at her, trying to comprehend how something so careless could happen to somebody so careful like Rachel. Rachel can't be pregnant. She's too self-driven, too talented, too amazing to have something like this, something so irresponsible, hold her back from stardom. 

Rachel has too much to offer the world before she should be forced to settle down for good, Santana knows, which is why it hurts so much to see her best friend struggling to get her words out. "I—I don't need a mother, seeing as I've never h-had one in—in the first place," Rachel stutters, taking a step away from Santana. "I don't need a guidance counselor or a choir director. All I need is my best friend to stop looking at me like that."

Biting down hard on her lower lip, Santana shifts uncomfortably and looks away. "Like what?"

"Like—like I'm about to break in half."

Santana doesn't know what to do or say. She's never done this sort of thing before. Back when Quinn was pregnant, Santana was too busy being a selfish bitch to give a fuck about anyone else but herself and Brittany, so this time around, all she can do is press a hand to her stomach and try her best not to vomit all over the floor. 

Taking a deep breath, Santana forces herself to look at Rachel and ask, “Are you—have you been feeling weird at all?”

“Weird?”

“Like—I don’t know,” Santana mumbles, distractedly rubbing at her elbow. “Nauseous...or queasy?” 

“A little queasy,” Rachel admits, and then adds, “But I dined at Big Lenny’s with Angela the other day, so that could’ve just been a result of some bad take-out.”

Santana shuts her eyes for a moment and allows herself to count to ten. This is payback—yeah, that's what this is. Karma, or God, or whoever, is trying to get back at her for being such a cruddy friend to Quinn back when she needed her most. Maybe this is one of those enlightening things where she’s supposed to finally see through her crap, and then all the bad will go away once she picks up her phone and tells Quinn that she’s sorry for being so damn self-centered all throughout high school.

But instead of calling Quinn when she grabs her phone, Santana ends up dialing Kurt's number. He picks up on the last ring, sounding annoyed by the random interruption in his day, but Santana could give two fucks about his irritation and goes on to describe their recent dilemma. 

By the end of the phone call, Kurt is fairly less annoyed. His hyperventilating seems to be doing a good job of distracting him from that as Santana orders him to get his gay ass back to their Bushwick apartment ASAP so he can take care of Rachel while she heads down the block to the nearest drugstore for a pregnancy test. 

Santana’s grabbing her coat and out of the door as soon as she hangs up, right after telling Rachel to hang in there and pray for her crimson tide to roll in. It’s like she’s on a mission or something as she flies down the steps of the apartment building and then runs down the street in nothing but her slip-on Uggs, taking the risk of tripping and busting her ass on the sidewalk, but she’ll take that risk any day for Rachel.

Once she's at the store, she doesn't know which pregnancy test to buy. There has to be about a billion different brands of them here on the shelf, so Santana quickly closes her eyes and then points at one. She even considers buying a box of condoms, but after a thoughtful pause, she scoffs out loud at the thought. Santana hasn't bought condoms since her junior year in high school. There is no way she is going back to those days, not even for Rachel. 

She's shaking as she stands in line. Sweat gathers at her temples, and Santana inwardly curses Rachel for putting her in this position. Never in her life as an out and proud lesbian did Santana ever imagine she'd find herself in this predicament, but now here she is, in the middle of Brooklyn, about to buy a fucking pregnancy test for her best friend who wasn't smart enough to use protection. Never mind a baby, Rachel could have caught an STI, or genital herpes, or something even grosser. 

Stepping up in line, Santana grimaces at the thought as she catches the cashier's eye. The pimple-faced teenager behind the counter gives her a strange look as he rings her up. Scraping her molars together, Santana bears her teeth and growls, "What? Never seen a woman buy a fucking pregnancy test before?"

The kid makes a face, clearing taken aback as he bags Santana's purchase. Santana snatches the plastic bag out of his greasy hands and practically barrels over an elderly woman with a cane on her way out of the store. 

When she gets back, Kurt is sitting on the floor in front of the bathroom door with his knees pulled up to his chest in the fetal position. He instantly shuffles off the ground once Santana pushes through the metal door and reveals the pregnancy test as if it's the Holy Grail or something. 

"She in there?" Santana knocks her knuckles against the door once Kurt nods his head. "Shorty, you okay? I got the test."

"I'm fine," Rachel sniffles as she cracks the door open. Santana hands it over and yelps when her fingers come super close to being slammed between the doorjamb. 

Kurt and Santana share a concerned look. "This is..." Kurt begins to say, and then trails off when his words fail him. Santana doesn't ask him to continue. She thinks she understands what he means anyway. 

They stand by the bathroom door as Rachel pees on the stick. It's a little awkward, listening to someone pee while standing beside someone else, but they're all friends here, closer than most friends Santana's ever had, so she guesses it's really not as awkward as it could be. 

As they wait, Kurt worriedly bites on his fingernails, and Santana thinks she's going to be sick. The universe must be trying to tell them something. Things like this don't happen unless someone is being punished, and it's most likely Santana, if morals have anything to do with it. Overcome with guilt, Santana makes a move to her pocket for her phone, set on calling Quinn once again, until she catches Kurt checking his wrist watch. 

"Got somewhere more important to be, hot stuff?" Santana snaps, cocking her hip to the side as she leans against the nearest wall. 

Kurt sighs and gives Santana a dull look. "Rachel's been in there an awful long time. Five minutes to be exact, and I for one, being used to occupying the lady's room in high school, know it doesn't take a woman five minutes to pee."

There's a snide remark right on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it down, figuring right now is probably not the time. She knocks softly on the bathroom door instead. "You alright in there, Rach?" Santana calls out, pressing an ear to the door. "Do you need any help?"

Santana's not really sure what she could do to help other than hold the stick under Rachel's legs, which admittedly isn't high on the list of things she wants to do today, but this is Rachel, and Santana's quickly beginning to realize she'd do anything for that girl—everything except buy a box of condoms. 

"I'm okay," Rachel's quick to reassure them, effectively stopping Santana from turning the brass doorknob. Santana glances over to Kurt, and with a dubious look, Kurt presses his lips together with a heavy shrug. It's amazing how well they can all understand each other with only so much as a look, but Santana supposes that's bound to happen when you live with people as long as they've been living together. 

It's another five minutes before they hear movement coming from inside the bathroom. Santana's close to dozing off when Kurt nudges her in the shoulder and juts his chin at the bathroom door. 

The toilet flushes. The faucet runs. "I'm done," Rachel says meekly. 

Santana bursts through the door and looks around for the test kit. Finding it on the edge of the bathtub, she grabs for it and quickly reads what it says. "How long has it been?"

"About two minutes."

Santana looks at Rachel closely for the first time in over an hour. Her eyes are still red and there are dry tracks on her cheeks from the tears. A knot forms in Santana's throat. 

Folding his arms over his chest, Kurt steps inside the bathroom. "What are the signs?"

Santana scans the directions. "A minus means nada. A plus means knocked up."

Kurt rolls his eyes at her choice of words, but all Santana can do is shrug, because that was literally the fastest way for her to relay the information without having to read the whole goddamned box. 

They wait. 

But Santana's impatient as it is, so this is like torture for her. Clutching the test kit in her left hand, Santana sits on the edge of the bathtub as Kurt plops down on the toilet seat with a sigh. Rachel stands by the sink, rigid, and never takes her eyes off of the tissue-covered pregnancy test grasped tightly in her right hand. 

"Okay, time's up," Kurt says, glancing up from his wrist watch. 

Santana presses her lips together as she stands. "What's it say, Rach?"

Confused, Rachel squints her eyes and turns the stick upside down, right side up, tilts it sideways, and rolls it over backwards. "Um..."

"Rachel?" Santana calls out again, anxious. 

"I—I don't know what it says."

With a huff, Santana snatches the stick out of Rachel's hand and squints down at the control window. "What the fuck is that? An asterisk?"

Kurt grabs the directions from off the sink and quickly scans them over. "An asterisk means undetected. There was an error," he explains, clenching his jaw in frustration as he looks over to Rachel. "You have to try again."

Santana quirks an eyebrow. "Again?"

"She has to pee on another stick," he tells them in layman's terms, standing up from his seat on the toilet to check his bloodshot eyes in the mirror. 

Alarmed, Santana slaps a hand to her forehead and mutters, "I only got one."

Kurt pauses in front of his reflection, and then swivels sideways to pin Santana with an unreadable expression. "You only bought one pregnancy test?" he exasperates, narrowing his eyes disbelievingly. "These cheap drug store tests are never accurate. Women have to try these things at least two or three times before anyone can be truly sure, Santana."

"Well, excuse me for never having this problem considering I am a fucking lesbian," Santana sneers, prodding Kurt in the shoulder with her finger. "Pregnancy scares and getting knocked up aren't really on the top of my list of phobias, so maybe you should be the one asking yourself why you know so much about this, gay boy."

"Stop it, the both of you!" Rachel shouts, plopping down on the toilet seat with her head in her hands. "I can't get through this with the two of you arguing like children, so please, just shut up and let me think."

Well. 

Rachel sure has some nerve, considering all of this pregnancy shit is her fault, but Santana keeps her thoughts to herself, knowing her words would do nothing but further upset Rachel, and that's kind of the last thing they need right now. 

They’re all silent for a while. Rachel works on her breathing as she stares at the shaggy pink rug underneath her feet. Santana wonders what she's thinking, but she doesn't have to wonder for long when Rachel lifts her head and finally says, "I have to set a doctor's appointment." She's mostly talking to herself, but Santana and Kurt nod along anyway. Head bowed, Rachel wipes at the tears on her cheeks and mumbles, "Just to make sure. To be positive."

"Or negative," Santana adds, only to have Kurt pop her in the stomach.

\--

"Have you told Lloyd yet?"

"No."

"Why not?” she wonders, nervously pressing her thumbnail into the wooden armrest. “What are you waiting for?"

Rachel purses her lips and looks away. Santana’s never seen her like this before—so out of it, so unable to control the way her life spirals into tangles and knots with no hope of ever escaping. This isn't the Rachel Santana's come to know and love, and she kind of blames herself for not seeing it sooner.

She glances around the small, stuffy waiting room. The place is scattered with women of all different ages and ethnicities. Some are as young as thirteen, while others are as old as their late forties. Some are all alone, while others are holding on to a man’s hand for support. Some are happy and smiling, while others look as if they’re holding back tears.

“The—“ Rachel stops herself and breathes. “The baby wouldn't be Lloyd's, Santana," she confesses, licking at her lips. "We broke up about a month ago, and besides, I never slept with him anyway."

Santana crinkles her nose in confusion. "You and Lloyd aren't..." she trails off, perplexed, before pinning her dark eyes back on Rachel. "Wait, but—then who?"

"Looks like I finally had a one night stand, and here's where it got me—at some shady clinic in a grungy neighborhood in downtown Brooklyn," Rachel laughs, throwing her head back against the stiff waiting room chair, and Santana watches her closely, hoping Rachel isn't acting this way because of the pregnancy hormones. "And that, Santana, is why I wait to have sex with only the people I love. Doesn't seem so stupid now, does it?"

Santana sags against her chair and frowns thoughtfully. "I never said it was stupid."

"But you've always thought it," Rachel is quick to add. 

Well, _duh_ —waiting to have sex is not stupid when you're doing it with a fully loaded penis and no condom, Santana thinks, but what she says is, "Not anymore," because Rachel's made it clear a dozen times that gender shouldn't make a difference when being safe—except that's a total double standard, considering there is no way in hell Santana could ever get pregnant by having sex with another woman, while all Rachel has to do is spread her legs and a baby could be magically popping out of that cave in nine months, more or less.

Placing a hand on the armrest, Rachel sneaks her fingers in between Santana's and holds on tight. "You don't have to lie to me, Santana," she says, and Santana's not really sure how to respond to that, so she doesn't. "We're best friends."

She knows they're best friends. Rachel can't seem to tell her that enough these days, and Santana's honestly not sure if it's too reassure her that they're really okay after the whole sex thing, or if it's to promise that they'll always be there for each other, no matter what. 

But Santana thinks that if they were such great best friends, Rachel would have told her she and Lloyd had broken up a whole fucking month ago, but maybe they're just not those type of friends anymore. They're best friends who obviously have great chemistry in bed, that much is certain, but since neither of them want to ruin their friendship over a sexual urge, they ignore everything else around them, including condoms and bad breakups and even happy makeups. 

Even though it's confusing and it sucks, Santana thinks she can do that, just ignore everything, as long as Rachel is still hers first at the end of the day. She's always been oddly possessive over the people in which she holds the most affection.

"If—and this is only _if_ , Rachel," Santana stresses, looking her roommate in the eye as she turns their hands over and squeezes gently. "If you're pregnant, I'll be here for you. I mean, I'll help you raise the baby. _We_ can raise the baby."

Her mouth feels dry just from saying the words, but there's no chance in hell she'll ever take them back, because they've never been more true. Santana will do anything for Rachel, especially after all the baggage she brought into their loft when she first moved to New York. 

She owes it to her. 

"You mean, like— _together_?” Rachel asks, hesitantly, and Santana nods, trying to smiling, but her lips won't stop trembling. Rachel lifts an eyebrow, seemingly unconvinced. "Santana—"

She squeezes Rachel's hand even tighter. "That's only if, remember?"

Lips quirked worriedly to the side, Rachel sucks in a breath of air before exhaling, "Yeah, okay." She still looks slightly reluctant, but Santana supposes that's normal under such extreme circumstances as raising a baby with your best friend. "If," she whispers to herself.

It's normal to feel choked up and teary eyed after heart to heart moments like this, right? Santana sure hopes so, because there is no way she could actually be going soft—though if she is, only for Rachel. "I love you, Rach," she says steadily, despite the gurgle in her throat. "No matter what happens in there."

Rachel gives her a teary smile back and places their interlaced hands in her lap. "I love you too," she whispers, leaning over the armrest to lay her head on Santana's shoulder. "And thank you."

\--

She cries when Rachel tells her. Maybe not out of relief, but with the knowledge of another opportunity for Rachel to make up for her mistakes. She literally _just_ got that role in her first Off-Broadway production. No offense to babies, but a pregnancy would have only put a wrench in Rachel's future plans. 

That night, she calls Quinn. There's a lot Santana needs to get off her chest, especially after the crazy week she's just had. But instead of an apology, they just fall right back into their regular banter, because it's what they're most comfortable with, and whenever Santana even thinks of getting honest and vulnerable with Quinn, sirens go off in her head, and she's immediately taken back to high school, where Quinn was always one step ahead of her. 

Of course they've moved on since then. Quinn's one of her closest friends, but sometimes, when Santana has to go to her with an insecurity or a very sensitive subject, she still worries that the HBIC will sneakily go off and tell her secrets to the world, just out of spite. But this lack of trust isn't on Quinn. Not anymore. 

They were supposed to have buried that hatchet a long time ago. It's Santana that just can't seem to let go of the past, and somehow Quinn seems to sense this, even miles away through the telephone. 

Quinn's voice gets lower, if that's even possible, when she asks if there's anything wrong, besides the fact Santana randomly called her at one in the morning. Santana tries to laugh it off, but then that forced chortle turns into a sob, and she quickly wipes her tears away, takes a deep breath and then tells Quinn about the pregnancy scare. 

Quinn's mostly silent throughout the story, and she doesn't really say much when Santana apologizes for not being a better friend, for not being there when Quinn needed her most. 

"But I think I've learned from my mistakes, so now I'm trying to make up for them with Rachel," Santana tells her, but then it's quiet. 

The streets are oddly silent tonight too. Santana walks toward the kitchen window over the sink and peers out at the streets. Their road is practically empty besides the few bums, Jaime and Kyle and Rick—yeah, she knows their names—but other than that, the entire road is deserted. Almost a metaphor for how Santana feels right now. Empty of regrets, but ready to fill that emptiness with something new—something inspiring. 

Finally, after a time of recollection, Quinn breaks the silence. "There's something you're not telling me," she says, and it's not a question.

Of course after Santana bares her soul and lets Quinn in, the girl accuses her of hiding shit. "What?" she mutters dryly.

"Or maybe you haven't told me because you haven't told yourself yet."

"Q—"

Quinn cuts her off with a sigh, and then says, almost in realization, "You really care about her."

She doesn’t know why she hesitates, because of course she cares about Rachel. By now, that’s a given. But she cares about Kurt, Henry, Cole, Quinn, and Britt too, even after everything they’ve been through. 

She used to live by this motto: _Don’t care for others unless they care for you_ , because that’s how you avoid getting hurt—that’s how you don't get blind-sided and deceived. But out of everyone Santana cares for, Rachel is the last person who would ever lie to her. So of course she cares. Maybe a little too much. 

But to Quinn, instead of going off on that stupid, emotional tangent, she only clears her dry throat and whispers, "I do."

There’s a sigh and then some shuffling through the line. “Santana, I know how you get with the people you care about," she says, and Santana feels like arguing against that notion, but the words don't come to her. She's left moving her lips silently, trying to talk her way out of it, but Quinn speaks over her, and says, "Just be careful, okay?"

Being careful has never been Santana's strong suit. She's reckless and impulsive, and she hardly ever thinks things through before going for it. Some may call it passion, others might refer to it as stupidity, but if there's one thing Santana's become exceptional at over the years, it's protecting her heart under any circumstance, even if that means hurting somebody else before they can hurt her.

"Okay," she promises, but who knows if she's going to be able to keep it? Promises have been meaning less and less to her since coming to this city. 

Who's to say they ever meant anything at all?

They end the discussion about fifteen minutes later when Quinn can't stop herself from yawning and tells Santana she has an 8 o'clock tomorrow morning. Santana lies on the couch for a while after that and closes her eyes, imagines the stars back home in Lima. It's a comforting thought until her mind roams to the other things in Lima that she felt behind, the things that aren't quite as pleasant as gazing up at the stars. 

After a stretch and a yawn, Santana retires to bed, but even though she's been sleeping on a better mattress these days, it still doesn't feel right. She's out of her curtain before she even realizes that her bare feet are tip-toeing down the hallway. She pauses outside of Rachel's room before saying fuck it and pushing her curtain aside. 

"Rach, you still awake?" She breathes and waits, standing stiffly in the darkness as she anxiously shifts from foot to foot. 

A flood of moonlight streams into Rachel's room from her shadeless window. She can just barely make out the lump that is Rachel laying underneath the covers. "Yeah," she hears eventually, followed by a soft, "I can't really sleep." 

A head pops up from under the covers, and Santana smiles at the messy nest of brown curls that is Rachel's hair. It's so fucking endearing Santana has to twist her fist into the front of her white tank top to keep from saying something stupid. "Me neither," she whispers, shrugging dumbly. 

Turning onto her side, Rachel scoots over in bed and makes some room—like she always does whenever one of them is having trouble falling asleep—and then offers this lopsided smile as she welcomingly lifts up the sheets for her. 

Santana scampers over, bare toes freezing against the cool hardwood floor despite the warmth of the night, and then she's under the covers right beside the person she's been thinking of all night. They lay in silence for a while, Santana on her back as she thoughtfully looks up at the ceiling, Rachel on her side, facing the opposite wall. 

Humming under her breath, Rachel rolls over to face Santana before saying, "Do you think I'm good enough to be here? Or is New York just too big for me?"

"Are you kidding?" Santana turns over as well. "If anything, you're too big for New York."

Closing her eyes, Rachel graces her with a drowsy smile, so Santana takes a deep breath and then allows herself to fall asleep too.

\--

She’s already filled out over ten job applications, from working at a sticky arcade with teenagers all day long, to working an elevator for swanky, rich people who can’t stand to press the damn button to their floor on their own. 

Now, she waits. 

But if no one gets back to her in over a week or two, Santana just might have to go back to Cobblestones and beg for her job back, which— _fuck no_. Honestly, that’s the last place she’d work now, especially if it turns out Pat got that promotion. Just the thought of working under that idiot makes Santana feel ill. 

She’s finally finished her film treatment, and the work in her other classes can be done later when she goes to the library, so Santana makes the impulsive decision to surprise Rachel at school so that they can go out to lunch together. It’s something they used to do all the time before things got weird. Over the last few weeks, they’ve been slowly heading back to their normal selves, so hopefully Rachel won’t blow her off again with another bogus excuse. 

Santana stalks throughout the school, eyes scanning the walls of posters with news of upcoming performances and open mic nights and summer acting lessons given by alumni. It’s weird, sometimes, walking through here, especially when she thinks back to McKinley, knowing all of those posters would have been vandalized and ripped apart in the trash by the end of the day. 

Here, talent is highly regarded and praised, but back at McKinley, it was like the plague. No one wanted to be around it or even touched by it. They were lepers. But here, Rachel can thrive and be proud of her gift. It’s—God, they really have come a long way.

As she’s turning a corner, down another deserted hallway, Rachel’s scary, blonde dance instructor pops up, walking in the opposite direction on the other side of the hall. She sends Santana a dangerous smirk and looks at her a little longer than what would be considered normal—and _that look—_ it's as if she knows something Santana doesn’t. No words between them are spoken, and then she's gone, down another empty corridor. 

Santana finds Rachel in the dance studio, muttering under her breath as she flawlessly completes turn after turn. Crossing her arms over her chest, she leans up against the doorframe and then smiles when Rachel catches her eye in the reflection of the mirror. 

Rachel stops, turns around with an exhausted smile, and laughs a little to herself in embarrassment as she wipes away a droplet of sweat with her forearm. “Hey,” she drawls, pinching her eyebrows together. “What are you doing here?"

Santana forgoes Rachel's question and steps into the studio, heads toward the stereo. “It’s kinda quiet in here for a dance rehearsal, don’tcha think?” she muses, arching a brow. “You know what might help your dancing?" 

Amused, Rachel presses her lips together. “And what might that be?" 

"Some music." Santana hits play on the stereo and _My Same_ by Adele starts droning through the speakers situated around the studio. How appropriate. Reaching out a hand, Santana meets Rachel halfway with a crooked smile, and with a flair, asks, “May I have this dance, Miss Berry?"

Rachel giggles. "You may, Miss Lopez." 

Santana’s not the best dancer, and she doubts she’s the best dance partner Rachel’s ever had, not even close, but then she remembers how much Finnoncence sucked and doesn’t feel quite as incompetent anymore. Hands on hips, she leads Rachel around the studio, a little goofily and off rhythm, skipping and dipping, mostly to get a laugh out of her, and obviously it works. Rachel throws her head back, cackling freely and loudly until Santana tampers it down a bit and then leads them into more of a sway when the song changes to something a little bit slower.

"You know, when I was a kid, I always imagined dancing with Brittany like this in college,” Santana admits, trying to catch her breath. “Funny how things don't exactly work out the way you plan."

Rachel frowns as she peeks up from under her bangs. "Would you rather I was Brittany?"

“Not even," Santana scoffs. "No offense to Britt, but I don't think the two of us would have made it out here. Not like you and I have."

“How do you mean?"

"Britt and I," Santana begins, dipping her chin down. "I could always understand her, but I don't think she understood me very well. Sure, she could calm me down, but it was in more of a, I don't know—a manipulative way?" She raises a shoulder in confusion, because truthfully, she still doesn't know how she feels about that. "Britt just—she had this way of using sex against me. You've never had to do that to fully get me, Rach. You just do."

Rachel ducks her head bashfully. "Well, we've only—...slept together once, so I guess you never know."

"Touché," Santana quips, pursing her lips to keep from smiling. "Okay, now it's your turn."

"My turn for what?"

"I just shared something truly deep and profound. Now it's your turn. C'mon, let's have it, and no holding back."

"Well, since we're on the subject of exes—"

"Oh, please, no," Santana mutters, "I really don't want you to compare me to Mr. Lloyd Higgins."

"I was actually going to use Finn," Rachel teases.

"Okay, Lloyd it is."

"Santana, I admire you," Rachel says, resting her forehead against Santana’s shoulder. "You...you amaze me everyday with your kindness and gooey insides. Back in high school, I seriously thought you were a hard shell, and that Finn was the one with the gooey insides—"

"Mixed with nougat and caramel and fudge—"

"Santana, that's not nice," Rachel scolds, gently squeezing Santana’s bicep. "Anyway, my point is, I always thought I'd be spending the rest of my life with Finn. It sounds crazy now, especially since I haven't even spoken to him in months. It's you—the person I literally couldn't stand back in high school—who I'm spending my life with now, and I wouldn't want it any other way, Santana. You're my best friend."

"To BFFs everywhere," Santana says, dipping Rachel low, but before she can pull her back up, she slips on the smooth floorboards, knocking them both to the ground. She lands on top of Rachel, easily knocking all the air of her tiny body. "Oops," Santana grins down at her, but she doesn't make any move to get up. "Looks like I'm on top again."

Rachel laughs so hard big fat tears start to roll down her cheeks. "San—"

"Who knew you'd be a bottom, Rachel Berry, with all of your chutzpah?"

"Santana, get off of me—" Rachel chokes out, laughing at the startled expression on Santana's face. "I can't breathe with your fat ass crushing my windpipe."

Santana smiles as she leans down to peck Rachel on the cheek. "Sorry, darling," she singsongs, carefully standing up and then offering out a hand once she's on two feet. 

Rachel takes her hand with a roll of her eyes. "You're unbelievable, Santana Lopez."

"That is what all the ladies say." She interlaces her fingers with Rachel's and very clumsily spins her around. "Took you long enough to figure it out."

\--

She’s meeting Henry at O’Malley’s Saturday night, but he’s running late, so she decides to be proactive and order their drinks as she waits for his arrival. They haven’t really seen much of each other since Kurt moved out, and she briefly wonders if this is how it’s going to be from now on—now that Kurt and Henry are shacking up and getting married in less than two months. 

She pushes the thought away. 

Tonight is supposed to be about chilling out and forgetting all the shit that’s happened over the last few weeks. She’s here to lay back and relax, listen to the poets and singers as they scat on and perform their spoken word pieces. 

Henry would really love this place, if he’d only get here, Santana thinks, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. Kurt probably stopped him at the door for a quickie, and Santana can’t really blame Henry for giving in. If Santana had a sexually active girlfriend, she’d be doing the exact same thing right about now. 

She’s knocking back the rest of her first drink when a familiar voice catches her ear. It’s coming from the stage. Santana turns around to find Gwen reciting a poem under a dim spotlight. She’s actually quite good, and Santana wonders if everyone at NYADA is a triple or quadruple threat. 

Since Henry’s taking his own sweet time, Santana doesn’t see why she can’t have some fun in the meantime. Haling the bartender, she orders Gwen’s usual and then another for herself before tuning back into the rest of Gwen’s performance.

The audience quietly snap their fingers once Gwen’s done, and she smiles sweetly before bounding down the stage steps and towards the bar. She’s further down from where Santana’s sitting, but when Gwen waves for the bartender’s attention, he only points in Santana’s direction before getting back to work. 

Santana smirks at the expression on Gwen’s face. She looks annoyed, which—okay, Santana can understand that since she’d always make fun of Angela and Gwen whenever they came to Silk and would drone on and on about Daniel—but Gwen also looks slightly intrigued, and that’s the expression Santana focuses on.

“You bought me a drink?” she asks, daintily taking the seat to Santana’s left. Smiling, Santana only nods, so Gwen furthers her inquiry. “Why?”

“You were really good up there," she confesses easily, "and I honestly saw no other way to display my appreciation.”

Gwen bows her head, cheeks flushed red, and Santana laughs a little under her breath, because it looks like this isn't the first drink Gwen's had tonight. “A simple ‘you did good’ wouldn’t have sufficed?” she asks, quirking a brow as she sips from her drink.

“It _could_ have,” Santana says, carefully, “but conversation is always better when topped off with a drink.” 

Gwen slowly drags a finger around the rim of her glass. “Are you even old enough to be in here?”

It sounds like a challenge, so Santana digs into her pocket, fishes out her wallet, and then flips it open to show Gwen her license. “Fake IDs are all the rage these days.”

Gwen seems to take this in stride, nodding along to the music, smile pink and plump. Admittedly, Santana missed the single life. Having a girlfriend only reminded her of being tied down and analyzed, and honestly, dating sucks. It's all so much easier when you already know the person, _everything_ about the person, and dating them is almost the same as simply being their best friend. The transition from best friends to lovers was so easy for her and Britt, but Santana doubts it'll ever be like that again.

“So what brings you here, all by yourself?" Gwen asks, successfully bringing Santana out of her trance.

Santana scoots just a fraction off her stool and toward Gwen. “I was supposed to be meeting a friend, but it appears they bailed on me."

Playing with the straw in her glass, Gwen shakes her head and then giggles, “A _friend_ , huh?”

“Not _that_ kind of friend,” Santana drawls, rolling her eyes at Gwen’s cheekiness, “though I’m not opposed to that sort of arrangement." She catches Gwen's eyes and smiles suggestively, a little surprised at herself for never really noticing how attractive Gwen is. Blondes have always been her type, so why not platinum blonde? Might as well give it a try. "Are you?” Santana wonders, eyebrows raised. 

Gwen shakes her head, eyes lowered to the counter. “I’m not either.”

She's still testing the waters here. Who knows if Gwen is even into girls, so hesitantly, Santana says, “You know, with all the gushing over Daniel, I had no idea you even swung my way. Didn’t even make a blip on my radar.” 

“You have heard of bisexuality," Gwen teases, "haven’t you?”

“My high school sweetheart was bi, so I’ve not only heard. I’ve experienced." Maybe she's bragging, or maybe she's simply stating a fact, but it gets a reaction out of Gwen nonetheless. "Wanna get out of here?” she asks. 

Santana knocks back the rest of her drink and gets ready to grab her bag when Gwen reaches for her hand. She looks indecisive, as if she's suddenly having second thoughts, so Santana stands and waits for her to say something.  “Really, I’m flattered, Santana," Gwen slurs, messing with her short bangs, "But...but—“

“But…”

“But besides the fact I’m kinda seeing someone right now,” Gwen starts, blushing again, and Santana momentarily wonders when she finally got over Daniel, “I couldn’t do that to Rachel. It wouldn’t be right.” 

That...—okay, so that wasn't the excuse she expected to hear. “Can’t do what to Rachel?" Santana crinkles her nose with a quick shrug. "I doubt she’d care.” 

Gwen only smiles lazily with a snort. “Oh, she’d care. You have no _idea_ how much she’d care.” 

"What are you saying?” Santana squints her eyes in puzzlement. 

There's a long and blustering sigh as Gwen wobbles her way off the stool. Santana reaches a hand out to help her in case she falls, but Gwen just leans against the bar counter and says, “Santana, I don’t know you very well, but I can tell you’re smart and quick, _so quick_ ,” Gwen stresses, before pausing to take another sip that she really doesn’t need. She winces through the taste. “Honestly, how haven’t you figured this out yet?”

Sometimes it can be amusing talking to drunk girls, but other times, it can be frustrating as fuck. Maybe she shouldn't have bought Gwen that extra drink. “Figure what out?" she exasperates, desperately trying to understand. "I mean, sure, Rachel can be possessive at times, but—“

“But only with you.”

Santana stills. "...what?”

“Whenever she’s jealous or possessive, it always has something to do with _you_ ,” Gwen reiterates, swaying a little to the right in her red pumps. “And why might you ask?” 

They have something close to a staring competition, Gwen looking at her with his penetrating gaze, as if everything Santana needs to know will be found right in her green eyes. But Santana still doesn’t get it...—until an odd thought passes through her mind, but that can't be true or any further from the truth, because then that would mean...

"Oh, you can’t be serious," Santana scoffs, smiling a little awkwardly.

With a snicker, Gwen puts a finger to her lips and mumbles, "I can’t say anymore.” 

“Good. Don’t. Because it’s not true.” 

Gwen just makes this face and gets all quiet, and Santana swallows thickly, eyes darting from place to place as she tries to reel in her anxiety and calm her slamming heartbeat. 

"Shut up," she drawls, laughing under her breath, because _Rachel liking her?_ That's fucking crazy, but Gwen just continues to stare at Santana with this drunken smirk, making Santana extraordinarily uncomfortable. "Shut up, Gwen.” 

"I didn't say anything," Gwen mutters, raising her hands in defensive. “So, technically, you didn’t hear it from me. Remember that, okay? I don’t want Rachel mad at me.” 

Suddenly, she's so much more sober and everything is just a little bit clearer. But at the same time, she's never felt so confused and angered at what is obviously a blatant lie. "You're fucking insane and drunk off your ass," Santana accuses, continuing to shake her head in denial. "Rachel would've told me something like this if it were true.” 

"You sure about that?” Gwent challenges, eyebrows up to her hairline, and Santana feels like taking a seat, but she stands her ground. Or maybe she's still just frozen in place. "Remember how Rachel escaped to Philly when you got a girlfriend, or how Rachel always felt uncomfortable talking about Jenn with you, or how Rachel was so disappointed that you regretted what you did the morning after?" Gwen lists off, and then, with a wry grin, adds, "Because I sure do.” 

Santana can't believe this bullshit. "She told you about that?” 

"She confided in me.” 

Santana grumbles under her breath when Gwen throws back another shot. No, that's enough for her. She slides the rest of the glasses away, and then angrily asks, "How can I even believe anything that comes out of your mouth? You're supposed to be Rachel's friend, and here you are, talking shit behind her back about something that's not even true.” 

Gwen just laughs. "You know what. You're right. I'm a horrible person. Everything I just said is a big fat lie just to rile you up so I can take you to bed," she mocks, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "That makes better sense, right?” 

Santana stares at her in disbelief. She knows drunk Gwen. Santana's seen this side of Gwen enough times at Silk to know that she really doesn't mean anything she says when she's had this much and turns into a manipulative bitch. As she studies Gwen's slouched posture and droopy eyes, Santana tries to convince herself that this is just drunk Gwen talking—that Rachel couldn't possibly feel anything other than friendship for her, because that's the only thing that makes sense. Santana may not be the most logical of thinkers, but Rachel liking her just doesn't compute or add up. It's not even an equation to begin with. 

"You're done for tonight. I'm haling you a cab,” Santana sighs, waving down the bartender to close her tab. She expects an argument out of Gwen, but thankfully the other girl easily complies and then sags against Santana as she fishes out her credit card. 

It’s not the easiest thing, shuffling Gwen out of the bar and then into a cab, but she’s a lot lighter than Cole and Henry, so it’s not too hard of a struggle. Once she’s paid the taxi driver and made sure he has the right address, Santana wishes Gwen a goodnight, despite everything that just happened, and she then closes the door before hitting the roof. She watches the cab drive down the road until it disappears amongst the many other yellow cars in New York City.

Despite the time of night, Santana walks home. It’s warm out, and O’Malley’s is only three blocks from the loft, so she uses that time to think back on what Gwen had drunkenly told her in the bar.

As strange as it is, when Rachel told her she might be pregnant, for the briefest of seconds, Santana actually panicked, stupidly worried that she might be the father. It's the wildest thought she's had in years, but even wilder, she kind of didn't mind it. For that brief second where her imagination was moving faster than her brain, Santana got excited and wondered what raising a baby with Rachel would be like. 

Obviously, she can't knock _anyone_ up because of biology and the fact she doesn’t have junk, but two months ago, when she and Rachel had slept together, it sure felt like they were trying to make something happen between them. 

Maybe not a baby, but _something_. 

And that gets her thinking. It gets her thinking hard.

 


	6. yes, i lie and i wrangle with prospective angles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't seem to write anything under 14000 words these days, so i split the last chapter in two. after editing, the next and final piece of this part should be up in a few days. for everyone who's still reading, thanks for bearing with me ;)

It's finally summer, and although this time of year is usually Santana's favorite, it's been a little dismal.

In high school, after those torturous Cheerios practices, all she'd do is lay out on Quinn's patio with her two best friends and tan and swim and read _Cosmopolitan_ poolside donning her Hollywood sunglasses. Then she'd do it all over again the next day. This year, however...well, this year is a little different.

Not only is Santana in an entirely different state, but now she's working her butt off every night at this dusty bookstore down the street as well as trying to pass all of her summer courses. It’s been more than exhausting, never mind the fact that what Gwen told her the other night is still running around in her head in a never-ending circle.

At first, Santana tried not to think about it, pushing it back to the far recesses of her mind, because she has more pressing things to worry about, but then she couldn't sleep, and really, how is she supposed to get anything done or even function during the day when she's lacking sleep?

She just started her new job three days ago, so no paycheck yet, which is why she finds herself at the cheapest restaurant in the city: Big Lenny's. Obviously Cole has no qualms. She's never too picky about what she eats unless it was once alive and kicking, so they both get a salad, because it's the safest option, and then eat it at a table outside since it's such a beautiful day.

Cole’s looking at her strangely because she’s been oddly quiet during lunch, so Santana decides to just say what’s on her mind before Cole tries to force it out of her. “Do you think..." she trails off, anxiously tapping her fingers on the table. "Would it sound crazy if—”

“Just say it, dude," Cole tells her, licking the raspberry vinaigrette dressing off her fork. "Believe me when I say I’ve probably heard it all.”

Santana picks at her salad for a moment, and then finally just says, “I think Rachel likes me.”

"Like," Cole trails off, " _likes_ likes you?"

"Yeah."

"Well, duh."

She bristles a little at that. “What do you mean, _duh_?”

“I mean, anyone within a three mile radius can sense Rachel has a crush on you, but I wouldn’t worry about it," Cole reassures her with a wave of her hand. "Everyone has a crush on you. You’re just that person.”

Okay, so this is definitely the first time she's hearing this. “ _That_ person," she echoes, eyebrows raised incredulously, because what does that even mean?

Cole smirks and then points her fork at Santana knowingly. “Oh, don't act like it’s not easy for you to get whoever you want. You can even get people who don’t like you to eventually like you. You’re like—how do I say this?" she asks herself, leaning an elbow on the table to peer closer at Santana. It's uncomfortable being analyzed like this, but it's definitely not the first time it's happened. "You have this hard exterior, but you let people in _just_ enough to make them want to break through and see the rest of you. Hardcore tactics, dude.”

“It’s not a tactic," Santana huffs, sagging in her seat a little. "I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”

“I’m sure Rachel’s realized it," Cole teases with a cheeky grin.

Santana rubs a hand across her face and then squeezes the bridge of her nose. “Fuck off.”

“Hey, don't freak out. I’m sure it’s just one of those big sister admiration things. No biggie.”

Santana thinks of the other night and everything Gwen told her—how Rachel’s been affected by a lot of the choices Santana’s made over the last few months, or how Rachel vented to Gwen after they had sex—but who knows if all of that’s really even true, or if it was just Gwen being a drunken bitch?

She forces herself to believe the latter, because it’s less scary than the alternative. “Yeah, no biggie,” she agrees, but Cole’s not even paying attention to their conversation anymore.

Instead, she's squinting over Santana's shoulder with an odd look. "Hey, isn't that..."

Santana turns around only to snap back forward with a roll of her eyes. "Higgins," she mutters under her breath, ducking her head down so that he can't spot her.

He passes without noticing either of them and then enters Big Lenny's, and Santana can't help but wonder if every damn college student in town comes to this crusty place. The prices are good, sure, but it's nowhere near Syracuse, and it's not like Higgins has any other reason to be up here in Brooklyn now that he and Rachel called it quits.

"Do you think Rachel ever told him what happened between you two?" Cole asks, breaking through Santana's thoughts.

Shrugging a shoulder, Santana can only say, "I highly doubt it," because Rachel used to be all about honesty, but as of late, secret upon secret has been stacking up against her, and it's kind of rubbing Santana the wrong way. They're best friends, so they should be able to talk to each other about anything—at least, that's Santana's definition of friendship—but between Rachel's possible crush on her and her recent pregnancy scare, Santana's been feeling like she hardly knows the girl these days.

Cole gazes through the window of Big Lenny's. It's truly amazing how many nosy friends she has. Cole is probably the least nosy of them all, and Angela would be at the top of that list if Santana even considered her a friend.

"Who's that he's with?" Cole wonders, and Santana follows Cole's line of vision through the window with a careless shrug.

"Never seen him before."

They're sitting in a booth near the back, but the angle is perfect so that Santana and Cole can both peer inside without being seen. They probably look so fucking sketchy right now. She's never been the type to spy on people, but the way Lloyd and this other guy are chatting and smiling at each other looks like more than just a friendly meal.

If Santana didn't know any better, she'd think...

"Dude, he just pulled the-napkin-over-the-hands bit," Cole chuckles, shaking her head in surprise.

Santana's no amateur to hiding relationships and acting like friends in public when in reality she's really fucking the girl she's out to lunch or dinner with. She recognizes those sparkly eyes trying to contain the gay, and she definitely recognizes that nervous look in Lloyd's eyes as he drops an inconspicuous napkin over their conjoined hands resting on the table, because that used to be her move.

And she excelled at it.

"You don't think..." Santana cups her hands around her eyes and then leans up against the window. Not exactly stealth, but fuck. _Fuck_. Lloyd, Rachel's ex-boyfriend, is out on a date with another man. This is...well, this is just—

"Crazy, man," Cole drawls, popping a tomato into her mouth. “Now _that_ , I didn't see coming.”

Santana can only nod with a queasy expression. Honestly, she has a sick feeling there’s a lot she hasn’t seen.

\--

It's been a little under a month since Rachel scored the understudy role of Maureen in _Rent_ , and even though she's not the lead or technically even in the play yet, Rachel's never been happier. This is her foot in the door, and according to Rachel, she can only go forward from here.

Opening night is around midsummer, right after Kurt and Henry's wedding, so Angela throws Rachel a party to celebrate her first role in a New York theatre production at her high-class apartment in downtown Brooklyn. Lots of people show up, some Santana's never even seen before, but Rachel greets every single one of them as if they've been friends for years.

It's a little weird, Santana's not going to lie, seeing Rachel so popular and liked by so many people, especially compared to how things were back in high school. But she guesses that when you have talent in a place like New York, it's not too hard to make it into the in-crowd.

Everyone seems to be having a good time. The music is blasting, the alcohol is flowing, people are laughing and talking, and even a few of the antsy dance majors are flapping around recklessly, and although it looks like a lot of fun, Santana's not really in the partying mood tonight. She's still thinking about what happened yesterday. Her thoughts are scattered all over the place, and she's not really sure what to believe anymore.

If Lloyd's gay, did he trick Rachel into dating him? Was she his beard? Did Rachel know, and if so, why would she lie to everyone about it?

On the walk back to the loft yesterday, Cole tried to reassure her that maybe Lloyd is just bisexual, and Santana considered that too, of course, but when she thinks back on his and Rachel's relationship, it did kind of always feel off in a way. Like, she never even saw them kiss. Not on the lips, anyway, and what couple doesn't fucking kiss?

There's so many questions swirling around her brain, and so Santana downs a gulp of beer in order to make them stop. She's on her second bottle already. Her cheeks are feeling warm, and her head is in a nice, fuzzy state.

She should sit down, but her beer is practically sloshing around at the bottom of the bottle. Bottoms up. She downs the rest of it and then heads into the kitchen for more, only to find Cole and Gwen chatting quietly to each other in the corner by the fridge.

Ever since the engagement party at Callbacks, those two have been looking pretty comfy towards each other whenever they're in the same vicinity. Santana would question it, but she's already got enough on her plate as it is. Who fucking cares if they're boning anyway? If Santana's a player, Cole is the freaking referee or something. She controls the game in and out, and Santana has to give Cole her props for scoring a girl like Gwen.

Angela and Lawrence enter the kitchen next, discussing wedding plans and arrival times, and Santana turns away from them, because seriously? She's tired of hearing about this shit. If she had it her way, she wouldn't even go, but as of last week she's been appointed as one of Henry's groomsmen. Now there's no way she can skip out on the ceremony, and she thinks that may have been Kurt and Henry's plan all along.

It's not that she's not happy for them, because she is, but it seems the happier they get over the wedding, the more and more Santana thinks about Rachel and how their relationship is slowly falling apart under the stress of so many secrets, all on Rachel's part.

Kurt comes strolling into the kitchen, and right behind him is Henry, who sneaks up behind his fiancé and then wraps his arms around him in one of those nauseatingly adorable hugs. They both laugh, and then Henry kisses him on the cheek before heading over to Santana.

"Why so down, cupcake?" he asks with this stupid smile. He's been calling her sunshine, butterfly, and even snow cone princess, all fucking week, and Santana assumes it's just because he's happy his wedding is less than three weeks away.

He's just excited, but Santana grunts under her breath anyway and then reaches into the cooler for another bottle of beer. "Not drunk enough for this gay soirée," she mumbles, popping the lid off with a flick of her thumb. It clampers to the floor, and with a sigh, Henry reaches down to pick it up.

"Don't be a litter bug," he scolds teasingly, "This isn't your apartment."

"Pretty sure it's not Angela's either," she says, and Henry lifts a brow in confusion. "You never heard? She's a mob boss' daughter, or niece, or whoever. It's probably his house and she's just living in it until he's bailed out of jail or something."

"Hey, that's just a rumor," Angela chimes in, and _of course_ she heard them. The queen of eavesdropping can probably hear top secret government affairs coming in all the way from the freaking White House.

"A rumor you've never addressed," Santana adds, raising her eyebrows, but really, who the fuck cares? She technically worked under a mob boss for three months before losing her job, and she kind of owes that to Angela, so she decides to drop that argument and pick up something else. "Speaking of rumors, there seems to be a lot going around right now."

Kurt looks like he's about to have a heart attack. "What? I haven't heard anything."

The look on his face is hilarious as he presses a hand to his chest, but Santana ignores him. Gossip is so irritating. It's what has Santana thinking her best friend has a crush on her. It's what has her face printed on over a thousand magazine covers accusing her of stealing Jenn's dog (and Jenn doesn't even have a dog!), and it's what has rumors circulating that she was the main cause for Rachel and Lloyd's breakup, which—...okay, so that may not be entirely false, but it's nobody's business even if she was the fucking cause.

She thought she left this high school shit behind after that one time Britt almost mistakenly outed her to the entire school, but it seems high school antics follow you outside of high school and wherever you go for the rest of your life.  

Santana's tired of it. She's tired of it all, so maybe it's about time she lay some of these rumors to rest, starting with the ones about Jenn. "For one, my ex didn't give me that black eye, so you can all stop talking about how she's an abusive bitch behind my back," she says matter-of-factly, and Angela coughs into her fist, so they can all pretty much gather who came up with that one. "Secondly, yes, Rachel and I slept together, but it was only a one time thing, so get over it. S'never happening again."

Nobody says a word. They're all just looking at her strangely, and Santana would think over everything she's saying, but really, everyone probably already knows this shit anyway. All she's doing is clearing the air and setting everybody straight.

"Now, third, I did have a boob job, and I'm not ashamed of it, so you can stop asking around about it, Gwen," she accuses, and Gwen starts to lift her hands in defense, but nuh-uh, Santana's having none of that. "Oh, don't even try to deny it. Rachel told me you asked her once."

She takes a moment to look around at everyone—Gwen's face is red, Kurt looks like a kid in a candy store, and Lawrence is quietly snickering to himself, but everyone else...—well, they look like they'd rather be anywhere but here right now.

Leaning back against the counter, she eyes them all and considers not asking this next question, but it's starting to look like this city is smaller than she thought, and if anyone would know anything about the gay male community out here, it would be Kurt, Henry, and Lawrence. "Lastly," she starts, lifting a sharp brow, "Higgins is into dick, isn't he?"

Kurt looks like he wants to bust out laughing at the accusation. "Santana, that's ridiculous," he chuckles, because obviously he thinks he has the best gaydar known to man, especially when it comes to gay men. Santana thought she was pretty good at spotting 'em too, but looks like Higgins somehow slipped past them all. "If Lloyd was gay, I'd be the first to know."

"And I'd be the second," Henry adds, casually taking a sip of his drink.

It fucking annoys her how much no one takes her seriously. "But Cole and I saw him out with another guy yesterday," she tells them, and finally Cole nods in agreement.

"It's true," Cole says, shrugging a shoulder. Everyone knows she's not much for gossiping, but thankfully she speaks up; Santana's sure she was starting to look like a crazy person. "They were holding hands," Cole adds after a second, "...under a napkin."

Kurt gasps, and at first Santana thinks he's being a sarcastic ass until she sees the look on his face. Everyone in the kitchen is at least some type of queer, so they all know what that means—everyone except for Angela. "I don't get it," she admits sheepishly. "So what if it was under a napkin? Maybe they just wanted some privacy."

Henry shakes his head. "Oh, honey."

There's no time to explain gay shit to naive heterosexuals, not that it's any of Angela's concern anyway. “So now that you guys believe me, what the fuck is going on? Lloyd was just using Rachel as a beard to," Santana drawls thoughtfully, "...what? Hide? Make somebody jealous?"

Nobody says anything at first, allowing Daniel the opportunity to walk by, awkwardly scratching his nose when he notices the odd tension in the kitchen. "What's...something the matter?"

Angela pats him on the cheek. "Not now, Danny."

Cole crinkles her nose. "I'm pretty sure if anyone knew, it was Rachel. I mean, beards usually know they're beards, right?"

"Wait, who's growing a beard?" Daniel asks, looking around.

"So you're trying to tell me she lied? To all of us?" Santana asks, her voice low and incredulous. She doesn't want to believe it, but deep in her gut, she knows, and it has her reeling with fury, because there's no way Rachel would fucking lie to her. Frustration boils through her blood and up to her face. "That fucking troll. Where is she?"

"Santana, calm down," Henry advises.

Lawrence steps up with raised hands. "I'm probably going to get pummeled for this, but ..." he trails off, anxiously rubbing at the back of his neck. "I...I had a feeling Lloyd was gay."

“A feeling," she repeats in a monotone. "And what confirmed it?"

He flashes a guilty little grin. "Our sex marathon.”

"You—" She cuts herself off with a scoff. "You slept with him. _Of course_ you slept with him." The laughter comes unexpectedly. It just bubbles up her throat, but it’s low and bitter. "Whatever. That's not even the fucking point."

Just as Santana’s about to make her way into the living room, Rachel comes into the kitchen, spewing on about how they're all terrible hosts, but she instantly shuts up when everyone's eyes land on her. “What—...are we out of guacamole?"

Santana wills her rapid pulse to calm the fuck down, but something just isn’t right here. Nothing is right. "I'll tell you what I'm _out of_ , Rachel. Fucking patience, that's what."

"Excuse me?” Rachel huffs out in bewilderment.

Kurt presses his lips together, and then says, "Um, ladies, maybe we should hold off on this little bout until—"

"Hold off on what?" Rachel interrupts. "What's going on?"

"Maybe we should be asking you that question, Berry," Santana says, and Rachel looks affronted, but Santana's having none of that bullshit. Rachel's the last person who should be taken aback right now. "Look, let it go, Rach, I know. Cole and I saw your ex-boyfriend—or _whoever_ the fuck he is—out on a lunch date yesterday."

"We broke up," Rachel mumbles, brushing aside her bangs. "It's none of my business with whom he—"

"He was with another man."

There’s a grave silence as Rachel looks at Santana with wide eyes, and then stutters out, "He...what..."

Santana's seen Rachel practice and warmup for performances before. She’s not stupid. By now, she can tell the difference between her feigned facial expressions and her real ones. "I saw your ex out with another man at Big Lenny's. They were holding hands under a napkin, and I think we all know what that means," she says, before glancing sideways. "Well, all of us except for Angela."

“Hey,” Angela grumbles.

“Look,” Santana steps forward and then lowers her voice so that the people around them can’t hear. "I get why he'd want a beard, but...it just doesn't make any sense to me why you'd need one.”

She waits for an explanation, but Rachel only glances around at everyone as Kurt noisily clears his throat, Henry's face turns a pretty pink, and Angela cringes uncomfortably. Her friends are weird on the usual, but today is something else entirely.

Santana tries to ignore them. "Please tell me you didn't know. Just tell me and we can all go find that little bitch and—"

“Yes.” Rachel lets a breath of air slip between her lips, and then admits, "I knew."

Santana’s positive that all of their friends are expecting an explosion, but right now she’s more puzzled than angry. "Then why would you pretend to date him?”

Rachel lowers her voice to whisper, "Do you think we can have this discussion in private?"

Everyone in the kitchen is awkwardly trying not to look in their direction, and normally Santana would tell them all to fuck off, but they deserve to know the truth too. Rachel lied to all of them.

"I'm just trying to figure out what's happening here."

"And I'd tell you," Rachel says, "I would have already told you a long time ago if it wasn't so hard to say."

"Tell me what?” Santana stares at Rachel warily. "Rach, you know you can tell me anything, right?"

"No, I can't, because it'll ruin everything."

"Oh, for the love of God. Rachel likes you."

And there it is.

Santana flushes, and Rachel's face turns ghostly pale, as if her heart just dropped out of her butt. " _Angela_ ," Rachel practically whines, eyes wide, and frankly, mortified.

Wincing in apology, Angela crinkles her nose and then says, "Sorry, but this whole thing was starting to get painful to watch."

Rachel looks like she wants to disappear completely, and Santana understands how that feels. She kind of already knew about Rachel's crush, but she doesn’t want to react the wrong way and hurt Rachel’s feelings in front of all their friends, though as Santana looks around, from Kurt to Henry, Angela to Gwen, even Daniel to Lawrence, no one really seems all that phased by the confession.

"You all knew?" she asks, a bit disbelievingly. Guilty expressions appear on the people surrounding her, and Santana can’t believe this shit. It’s like she’s been living in the dark for who knows how long, while everyone around her has been sharing their own secrets behind her back. Secrets that very well concern her.

No one lied to her, not exactly, but withholding the truth—it’s practically the same thing. Everyday, Kurt and Henry would smile in her face, knowing full well that her best friend was hiding feelings for her, and shit—Rachel actually likes her. She’s not exactly sure how to feel, but she knows she’s not even close to finding the answers she originally wanted.

Clearing her throat, Santana forces herself to look Rachel in the eye, and then asks, "But what does this have anything to do with Lloyd?” Nothing is adding up. While one secret is revealed and out of the way, it seems as if there’s a shitload of crap still waiting to be divulged.

Rachel reaches out for Santana’s bent elbow, but she moves away before Rachel can touch her. They’re too close right now, and Santana can't handle it, so she takes a step back. Eyes shining with fresh tears, Rachel runs a shaky hand through her hair and then admits, "Lloyd was just—he was only supposed to open your eyes and make you reevaluate your relationship with Jenn compared to what…to what we could have."

Santana glances sideways uneasily and then murmurs, "What we could have..."

"I never planned on having sex with you—at least not until you and Jenn were officially broken up—but then I kissed you," Rachel blushes a little and her smile is radiant, "and when you kissed me back...Santana, what was I supposed to do?"

The look on her face must be priceless, because everyone's just staring at her as if they’re waiting for something unpredictable to happen. This is all too much, too fast. Her heart rams up against her chest, and it's not a nice feeling. She almost feels like she’s choking on air. "Stop talking. Just stop," she pleads, pinching her eyebrows together. "Rachel, I—you're not serious, are you?”

But Rachel only averts her eyes down to the floor and bites her bottom lip. It’s what she always does to hide the fact she’s about to start crying, and Santana feels for her, she does, but—this is just a lot to take in all at once.

She’s not even sure she’s hearing right, because Rachel can’t—she’d never do something like this. She’s not the type to go behind someone’s back. She doesn’t deceive. She’s honest and sincere, and with her strong morals, she'd never even think of pulling something like _this_.

But that was high school. That was Lima, Ohio, where the people are small and simple—where the people think small and simple. This— _this_ is the big city, and it looks as if the small town girl got swallowed up by it.

At Rachel's confession, Santana’s forced to re-watch the last two months of her life roll past in a filmstrip behind her eyes, but now everything’s different. Everything's a hoax. "You totally played me,” Santana whispers, realization finally hitting her smack in the face. "You knew how insecure I was about being in a relationship without intimacy, but you took advantage of that and used Higgins to make me jealous. And then you—fuck, you _lied_ to me, Rach. How could you—you were the _one_ person I thought I could trust. Why would you do something like this?"

Rachel purses her lips and visibly breathes through her nose. "Angela said it, Santana. I—I..."

Her cheeks feel like they’re on fire, but she can’t tell whether it’s from rage or embarrassment. "Yeah, yeah, I know," she rasps, "You like me, but that's—"

"I love you," Rachel corrects matter-of-factly, surprising everyone in the kitchen. It's obvious no one really saw that coming. While the confession may not have been new to all, the fact Rachel actually said it, with such conviction and strength, catches everyone off guard, including Santana, who can only stare in exasperation as Rachel looks at her as if there's no one else in the room, and then whispers, almost brokenly, "I've been searching for the right way and the right time to tell you, but it seems there's no such thing, so I guess this is it...Santana, I—I, um...I'm in love...with you."

She almost doesn't hear it because of all the chatter and music seeping in from the next room, but reading lips isn't exactly hard when those lips are right in front of her, when she's kissed those lips more times than she can count, when she knows exactly how they feel up against hers, and when all she can do is stare at them now, completely bewildered at the confession that just escaped from those lips.

Santana tries to smile, but the corner of her lip feels weak, and the fake grin eventually deflates as she dubiously mutters, "Love?"

It comes out weak and skeptical, but Rachel only nods her head slowly, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, ready to fall at the first sign of heart break. Santana doesn't want to be the one who causes that. She's never wanted to hurt her best friend, but now she's starting to realize that she may have been hurting her unknowingly for who knows how long.

The words get caught in her throat. She doesn't say anything for a long time, and it's like—Rachel's expression. She finally recognizes it now. It's the same look in her eyes when she'd gaze at Brittany. It's the same tears she shed when Brittany wanted them to only be friends. It's the same desperate confession Brittany heard their junior year when Santana couldn't keep her feelings a secret any longer.

“So, not a crush?" she asks in a whisper, suddenly remembering they're not the only ones in the room.

Kurt and Henry are obviously eavesdropping as they make a drink by the bar, while Angela practically stares them down from where she's standing behind the counter. Daniel’s disappeared, and Santana suspects Angela sent him off somewhere on an errand, and Lawrence has fled as well. Gwen has a hand pressed to half of her face in second-hand embarrassment as she leans into Cole, who is munching on a cheese cube and watching this as if it's some sort of movie.

Their friends seem to be the only ones interested in this exchange, and Santana would angrily tell them all to get lost if her mind wasn't currently short-circuiting from everything Rachel just told her.

"Much more than a crush," Rachel answers eventually, and then wipes away a stray tear, awaiting a response. A reaction. Anything. But Santana can't respond. She's frozen in place. More tears gather in Rachel's eyes the longer Santana fails to react or speak or even show she's listening. Clearing her throat, Rachel tries to sniffle her tears away. "It's been much more than just a crush for months now. Almost a year, to be more precise."

Almost a year. A year. That's practically the entire time they've lived together. The whole ten months they've gotten to know each other and then become friends suddenly flashes before Santana's eyes, but now everything looks different than it did before.

How Rachel's entire mood would shift when she'd choose Cole over her, or all of the silent treatments and the secrets and the lies and the manipulation—it all finally makes sense, and Santana has to close her eyes for a moment, pressing a hand to her forehead to keep herself steady.

She's not sure if she should feel angry about Rachel's deceit, or concerned about her emotional state; guilty for never noticing, or upset that Rachel never told her how she felt.

"Fuck, Rachel," Santana's words trail off, her voice a mixture of sympathy and confusion. "I would have never—I just…I didn't know."

Rachel was trying to be strong, Santana can tell, but after those words, her face practically crumples up, and she chokes on a sob, covering her face with her hands before turning around to do her trademark storm out.

Santana hasn't witnessed this since senior year, but instead of rolling her eyes and letting Rachel go, Santana races after her and latches a hand around Rachel's wrist before she can escape. They're in the living room now, around a group of people seemingly enjoying their evening, but Santana is blind to all of that.

All she can see is Rachel, and so she makes the embarrassing mistake of blurting out, "I thought we were best friends. I thought we could tell each other anything. You could have told me this, Rachel. Why didn't you tell me?"

Heads turn, jaws drop, and a few uncomfortable coughs are heard as most of the guests try to mind their own business, but a few of the nosy ones can't help but look on in curiosity and witness Rachel's emotional decline as she turns around with red eyes, and then again, asks, "Can we please talk about this in private, Santana?"

Santana ignores the gossiping murmurs of the party guests as she leads Rachel out onto the balcony and then closes the heavy doors behind them. The doors are glass and the curtains remain on the other side, so everyone can still see them, but at least now their words can't be overheard.

She runs a hand through her hair and out of her eyes to see that Rachel's doing the same thing as she moves toward the railing of the balcony. Santana watches her best friend for a moment, melting into the newfound silence, before joining Rachel and standing beside her.

Neither of them say anything for a while. The sound of the city relaxes her for the first time ever, and Santana soaks it in—the honking of the horns, the squeak of the tires, the rattle of the pedestrians as they make their way home after a drunken night out on the town. She'd give anything to be twelve stories down experiencing that carefree atmosphere, but instead she's here, standing beside her sniffling best friend as she tries to get herself together for what could possibly be the most uncomfortable conversation of their young adulthood.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Santana shifts from foot to foot and then glances sideways at Rachel questioningly. "Wh-when exactly did you start liking me?" she asks, and she means for her words to come out gentle, but instead, her voice is frantic and desperate. She can't help it. She needs to know. "Why didn't you tell me, Rachel? You should have told me how you felt.”

"Tell you?" Rachel scoffs, not even bothering to look over at Santana, her eyes focused out on the city landscape instead. "Do you...do you not understand how mortifying it would've been to confess to my best friend that I—I'd fallen in love with her?”

"I think I deserved to know.”

Rachel drags her hand across her face, catching a tear in the process, and then finally faces Santana with a look of incredulity. "It was none of your business.”

Santana has to laugh at that—it just comes out, and the sound is full of bitter disbelief. "You liked me as more than a friend for over a year, Rachel. We've kissed and...we've had sex, and _Christ_ —" Her hands go up, and a palm ends up groping the back of her neck. She doesn't want to yell or cry, but everything is easily revealed in her voice anyway when she says, "How many times have I broken your heart?”

Rachel cringes and more tears fall. The gurgle in her throat is obvious when she desperately whispers, "Santana—"

"I would've been more careful had I known. I would’ve been more sensitive to your feelings, and I definitely wouldn't have—"

"Fucked me?" Those brown eyes have never looked so shiny and hurt. Rachel smiles bitterly before a crumpling frown dons her lips, and Santana feels like she’s going to be sick. "Huh, Santana, is that what you were gonna say? Because I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear about all the things you would've done had you known." Santana bites her lip, hard, and Rachel grips onto the railing, even harder. "Well, now you know, so all I'm wondering is what's going to happen now. Between us."

The noises of the city—the sound of cars zipping by, buses honking, dogs barking—slip into the heavy silence. Rachel looks at her, with a red nose from crying, and smudged eyeliner, from even more crying.

Santana wants to reach out and wipe the mess away. She wants to comfort her best friend, because there's nothing worse than seeing her so damn broken. But now she's afraid of what that would mean, or really, how Rachel would interpret it. Turns out they've never been on the same page, much to Santana's shock, so who knows what a move as simple as swiping away Rachel's tears might cause her to believe?

"You know I love you, Rachel," she begins to say, turning her head slightly so that she won't have to see the hopeful expression on her best friend's face, "But I can’t...I just don’t—"

"But you don't love me the way I love you.” The way Rachel says it—so icy and void of emotion—strikes a painful cord in Santana’s chest.

It takes her back to junior year when she was in the hallway with Brittany. She remembers how lost and empty she felt after telling Brittany everything she'd been feeling; how angry she felt with herself and the world and even the girl standing in front of her.

Santana understands where Rachel’s coming from, so she tells herself not to get equally as upset. She won't let this end in an argument or another silent treatment. She won't let this ruin their friendship, even though Rachel's actions as of late have been doing a pretty bang up job of that already.

Santana moves near Rachel and stands beside her in front of the railing. It's a long way down, and so she focuses her eyes out on the city streets before shifting closer to Rachel and then bumping her shoulder. "I think this is what's been our problem all along," she starts, only to have Rachel look at her in confusion. After a pause, she continues, explaining, "We make assumptions and jump to conclusions and put words into each other's mouths. We're both guilty of doing that, but in order for it to stop, we need to be honest with each other from now on. No more secrets.”

Head bowed, Rachel grips on to the railing with one hand and then wipes away a black tear with the other. "Can we start now?” she murmurs quietly.

Santana chances a glance through the balcony doors to see that no one's even paying them any mind, and then gives Rachel a stiff nod. Rachel licks her lips and takes a shaky breath before looking up at Santana again. Her eyes are full of tears, and Santana wants to look away, but she promised she'd listen.

"I feel as though I've been getting mixed signals from you for as long as we've been friends," Rachel tells her, blinking her wet eyelashes rapidly. "Even this conversation is confusing, because I'm still unsure as to how you feel about me. You've never made it very clear.”

Santana purses her lips and blows out a bundle of air. "Honestly?”

"Yes," Rachel nods, anxiously wringing her fingers together. "Please.”

She prepares to answer, but her mouth moves wordlessly for a moment before she finally finds her voice. "I've never really given it much thought,” she says, which isn’t exactly a lie.

Cole and Henry have brought it up in the past, but she always just blew them off and forced herself not to think about it, because that was always a subject that made her uncomfortable. She hates feeling out of control of her feelings, and she’s already made the mistake of falling for her best friend once. Going there again wasn’t even an option.

It still isn’t.

Those doe eyes close slowly, and then Rachel's jaw clenches. It looks like she's smiling, but Santana knows better. She recognizes that expression. Rachel's smiling through the pain. For her, it's a coping mechanism, so Santana lets her have her moment of reprieve. Eventually, brown eyes open again, and with a weary sigh and a look of defeat, Rachel nods. "Okay," she mumbles, rolling her eyes at herself before folding her arms over her chest, thus closing herself off for good.

Gazing up at the sky, Santana releases a frustrated groan. "Rachel, please don't do the whole pouty-close-up-on-me thing you tend to do whenever I say something you don't want to hear," she pleads. "We agreed to tell the truth, and with that, we have to listen and listen openly. I'm not saying any of this to hurt you, okay? I'm only telling you the truth. How I feel.”

Holding back tears, Rachel only shrugs noncommittally. "Okay. Go ahead."

"We've slept together, so obviously I find you attractive. You're gorgeous, Rach, but I..." Santana bites down on her lower lip and then glances up, only to find Rachel subconsciously staring at her mouth. They make eye contact, but then Rachel awkwardly looks away. "I don't know, I just—I've never felt anything deeper for you other than friendship.”

Rachel's eyebrows knit together, and then she scrunches her nose up the way she does whenever something doesn't make sense to her. "I'm sorry, but I don't get it. We understand each other better than anyone else we know. We have great chemistry and we love being together," she says, grimacing through her practiced smile. "We're best friends, and...and best friends always end up together.”

This would be a lot easier if Rachel wasn't her best friend, if every word out of her mouth didn't cut the wound in Santana's heart even deeper. She's not doing this because she enjoys seeing Rachel in turmoil. It's honestly how she feels. And she'll never be able to control that. "This isn't a movie, Rachel. This is real life," Santana tells her, "I'll always love you, but I'm sorry I can't love you the way you want me to.”

Rachel’s lower lip quivers. She looks absolutely devastated. "But...but you made love to me that night—"

"Rach—“

"—and you were so careful and gentle with me, and you even held me afterwards. I'd wanted you for so long, and you were finally there, right there in my bed, willing and ready,” Rachel continues, so earnestly, and maybe a little desperately too, "and no matter how horrible of a person that probably makes me, I couldn't give up the chance to be with you."

Santana doesn't know how to react to what Rachel's saying. She can only imagine the expression on her face right now, but when she closes her eyes, an unexpected tear makes its way over the hill of her cheek. While she tries to quickly wipe it away, even more tears gather right after, so she doesn’t even bother to hide it anymore.

At the same time, Rachel bats her eyelashes, and now she’s full-on crying, with arms wrapped tightly around her stomach as a visible shiver runs through her body. The two of them must look like total crybabies out here, and Santana can only imagine what the party guests inside are saying about them.

But that’s despite the point. Rachel’s like, mid-breakdown, and she doesn’t show any signs of stopping. "The way you touched me meant more than just a quick fuck,” she declares, pointing a finger at Santana with a look of accusation. "You made sure I was comfortable with everything we did that night, so don't you dare tell me you did all of that just because you were horny and desperate. You're just afraid of falling in love with another best friend after what happened with Brittany."

Rachel's talking so fast and her words sound so hasty and jumbled that it takes Santana a moment to catch up, but once she does—once she hears that name spill out of Rachel's big mouth—Santana can't help but turn away and close a part of herself off.

Brittany was her first everything. That goes without saying, but while Santana wouldn’t have made it through high school without Britt, she would have fucking lost herself out here in New York if it wasn’t for Rachel. She’ll admit that much, but when it comes to everything that was revealed today, Santana finds herself at an extreme loss for words. The affection she feels for her best friend is still there, of course, but the trust they once had is now completely shattered.

Rachel swipes her tears away with an acrid smile. "Maybe it's because you don't want to hurt me, or—or because you're afraid I'll hurt you, but I'd never purposely break your heart, Santana," she promises, slowly stepping forward with a hand to her chest, because she’ll also never stop being so damn dramatic. "I love you, and I know you love me too. As more than a friend.”

The one thing she actually can't stand is when people try to tell her how she feels, and Rachel knows that. Santana isn't saying it's not true—everything Rachel's rambling on about—because who knows at this point why she feels the way she feels, but that's never been any of Rachel's business, and for her to use Santana's past against her as a way to explain why she's not head over heels in love with her roommate is really fucking fucked up.

She didn't want to turn this into an argument, and Lord knows she's fucking tired of the silent treatment. That form of manipulation has been a pain up her ass since becoming friends with Rachel. There's so much she loves about the girl, but goddamnit, there's so much she can't fucking stand either. She's entitled and crazy and so damn sneaky. It's been this way since high school, and Santana's fucking tired of it.

Her defensive instincts kick in, and without thinking, she tells Rachel, "What happened that night...I thought you understood—it was just...you were there and willing, so I took advantage of that—we took advantage of _each other_ —and I'll always regret doing that to you now that I know how you feel about me. But that's all that happened,” she explains weakly, “for me, at least.”

The look on Rachel's face is one Santana once told herself she'd never cause. There was way too much crap between them in high school for them to backtrack in that manner, but here they are anyway, at a standstill, practically staring each other off, waiting to see who'll break first.

After another few seconds, Rachel finally cracks. "I can't believe you," she whispers brokenly. The desperation in her voice is gone. Now all Santana hears is a matter-of-fact indifference, and somehow, that's even harder to listen to. "So, that's it? You're just going to write it off as us taking advantage of each other? You're—how can you just...you're just going to lie to my face, when I know you feel something here," Rachel reaches out and takes Santana's hand before she can even think of snatching it away, "don't you feel something?”

Santana looks down at their conjoined hands. Rachel's is so small and soft, and she almost wants to smile, until that hand squeezes hers gently and then starts to rub a thumb against the back of her hand. She lets go after watching a tear that's not her own drop onto Rachel's arm. It's too much. She can't keeping allowing her best friend to feel this false hope, and so she unravels their fingers and steps away.

This isn't fair. It's not fair to her, and it's definitely not fair to Rachel. "Rach," she sighs, tucking her hands into her jean pockets so that Rachel doesn't try to hold them again. "You broke my heart today too. I never thought you could—...you lied to me. We're best friends, but you lied to me, tricked me, and then continued to lie to me, and now you have the audacity to yell at _me_? To call _me_ a liar?" Her voice rises without her even noticing, but she can't help her anger. It's clearly warranted after everything Rachel's done—after all the shit she caused. "Were you ever going to tell me that Lloyd wasn't really your boyfriend, or that you built this whole crazy scheme just to sleep with me? Or were you just going to let me believe this shit for the rest of my life?”

Rachel's eyes widen frantically. "Santana, I'm telling you the truth when I say I never meant for it to go that far—“

"But it did. You had so many opportunities to tell me the truth, and I—“

She presses her lips together so tightly she's sure her mouth turns white. Anger flows through the blood in her veins, and she clenches her fists in her pockets before turning away from Rachel.

Rachel tricked her. She pretended to date a gay man in order to manipulate her, and that's not something Santana can look past, no matter how tortured Rachel seems right now. No matter how close they once were.

Shaking her head, Santana closes her eyes and breathes between clenched teeth, "I just—I think I need some space away from you right now."

Rachel's entire body deflates, and with a wobbly, disbelieving smile, she murmurs, "Santana—"

“Just—don't _Santana_ me.” Turning away, Santana clamps down on her bottom lip and tries to suppress her outrage the best she can but to no avail. “Just don't do that," she cries, rolling her eyes up to the sky as the tears continue to fall and then drip down from her chin. "Don't fucking look at me with those eyes, because this is unforgivable, Rachel."

Rachel looks like she wants to protest, but eventually, her shoulders rise in that uppity, self-entitled way of hers, and she sniffily says, "Then I guess I’ll leave.”

"No, let me," Santana volunteers, because if she has to look at Rachel for another minute, she might just break out into an ugly sob or something. Preferably, she'd rather not have anybody witness that, especially not Rachel, so Santana leaves Rachel behind on the balcony and then storms her way through the party, shaking off Henry's hand when he tries to grab for her.

He knew. Kurt knew. Angela knew. Everybody fucking knew, and if she has to look any one of them in the face right now, she just might end up punching them square in the nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if Rachel's deceit seems out of the blue, go back to this chapter: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2056578/chapters/4468002


	7. i'm just too much of a coward to admit when i'm in need

She goes home alone and sits on the couch in the dark for a good half hour before the front door starts to rattle open. Assuming it’s Rachel, Santana gets ready to escape to her room, but then someone switches the light on, and Kurt, Henry, and Cole appear in the foyer. She'd get up and hide from them too, if she gave a fuck what they thought. But she doesn't, not anymore, and so she begrudgingly settles back down and then curls her legs underneath her. 

“I thought we took that key back,” she says tiredly, pulling a blanket—one that smells way too much like Rachel right now—tightly around her shoulders.

“Rachel let me use hers,” Kurt explains, sitting in his old chair and then patting the arm for Henry to lean on. “We just wanted to check on you. That was a pretty fabulous storm out back there, if I say so myself.”

Santana closes her eyes and wills herself not to lose it again. "Where is she?" she asks, and she's not even sure that she wants to know, but then Cole informs her that Rachel's staying with Angela for as long as she needs. 

Santana did ask for space, so she appreciates that, on some level. It would be too much to have Rachel walking around here as if nothing happened, and hell if Santana’s crashing on anymore of her friend’s couches.

There's been too much back and forth over the last few months. Santana can't even remember a time before winter break where her and Rachel were on the same side,  _with_  each other rather than  _against_  each other. 

When they became close, they became  _close_ , and it was an instant connection. She never expected Rachel to understand her as much as she did, and Santana needed that back then. She needed someone in her life who loved her for who she was. She still needs that, but never did she imagine Rachel's love would turn so serious and real. 

"How are you feeling, teacup?" Henry asks her, and Santana shoots him a glare to cut out the stupid nicknames. 

He immediately shifts a little closer to Kurt at the look she sends him, so Santana glances away and then releases a weary sigh. "I just—fuck, I need a drink or something," she murmurs, rubbing circles around her temples, because the glazed feeling she had earlier has totally disappeared, and Santana could really go for a glass of wine right now. 

"Coming right up.” 

Henry pops up and rushes into the kitchen, probably hoping to escape the grief-stricken atmosphere in the room. He returns quickly with what exactly Santana needs, and she could seriously kiss him, but that's kind of Kurt's job. She takes a small sip of the white wine in her glass and then settles back against the couch.

Red wine, giddy. White wine, shitty. Rachel came up with the motto, and it's something that just springs to Santana's mind instinctively. She wonders if Rachel shared it with Henry too, but she refuses to ask. 

There are way too many other questions to ask first. 

“So you guys knew, huh?" Santana snuggles against the blanket some more and then tries to mask the pain in her eyes with a tired smile. "This entire time?”

Nobody outwardly confesses, but when Kurt errantly looks down at his lap and Henry turns beet red, Santana’s got her answer. 

"Why didn't you guys tell me?”

Cole circles the couch before taking a seat beside Santana, and then says, “Don’t look at me, dude. I’m just as flabbergasted.”

Somehow, flabbergasted isn’t even the word. 

After what Gwen divulged, Santana had a feeling Rachel might have a small crush on her, but as Cole said yesterday, who  _doesn’t_  have a crush on her? She thought it was admiration. She thought it was lust. She thought it was an infatuation. But to discover her best friend is  _in love with her_? Well, that's something she never expected, and she's still not sure how to feel about it all.

Santana narrows her eyes on the boys, but Henry only looks over to his fiancé for permission. Kurt nods silently, so Henry says, "Kurt swore me to secrecy. Not even Rachel knew that I knew.” 

"Kurt," she starts, but he only raises his hands in defense.

"Sure, I knew she had a thing for you, but it wasn't my place to tell, Santana," Kurt says, shrugging apologetically, but if only it were that simple. Rachel doesn't just have a  _thing_  for her. Rachel loves her. Rachel's _in love_ with her. It's much more than just a thing, and Santana has to take down another sip of her wine just to tolerate the idea of that alone.

Shifting on the couch, Cole cracks a small smile and says, "I did always say you and Rachel would be cute together, didn't I?"

"Too soon, Cole," Santana mutters, but then Henry starts laughing a little, and after a moment, Kurt laughs too, as if this whole thing is fucking hilarious. 

Now Cole's stupid ass is snorting under her breath, and Santana would fight them all if she wasn't laughing with them. She laughs so hard she cries, and then she cries so hard she starts to sob. 

The atmosphere shifts back so violently they all get whiplash, and then Cole's arms are wrapped around Santana, and Santana's face is pressed into her friend's chest as a harsh sob rips through her body. She doesn't even know why she's crying so hard, but it feels like she left a piece of herself behind tonight, and she hasn't felt this empty since she first arrived here in September. 

\--

She must have cried herself to sleep, because she eventually wakes up on the couch feeling disorientated, laying sideways on the couch right on top of Cole. Kurt and Henry are gone, and the lights are out. A police car zooms past, and she concludes the sirens must have woken her up.

Cole is dead asleep underneath her, and Santana doesn't want to wake her up, so she carefully rolls off the couch and then goes to the window. Red and blue lights highlight the entire loft, and a tear slides down her cheek when she yawns tiredly. 

She's emotionally exhausted, and her back hurts from sleeping at such an odd angle. She always wakes up refreshed when sleeping next to Rachel, but—Rachel's not here.

It’s three in the morning, and she can’t go back to sleep, so she takes a shower instead, hoping to drown her thoughts with the water as it flows down the drain.

\--

Rachel sends one text and one text only over the next four days, and all the message says is,  _I’m sorry_.

Santana deletes it.

She has other things to focus on. Working at a bookstore is a lot more taxing than Santana would have ever imagined, and her summer courses aren’t getting any easier as finals quickly approach. The course is only six weeks long, so that is practically four months of work being squeezed into such a short amount of time. The stress of that, plus everything going on with Rachel, sometimes keeps her up at night.  

She stays up so late that infomercials become enjoyable. This annoying woman is talking about fitness equipment and how it changed her life, and Santana’s eating a fucking bowl of popcorn and throwing a kernel at the television every time she says the name of the product.

Her eyes are so heavy in class the next day that she just says fuck it and puts her head down. Whatever she misses, she’ll just google it. That’s what the internet is there for. 

Her classmates are total losers. One guy in the back is picking his nose, thinking no one can see him, and this freakishly tall girl is sitting right in the front, obnoxiously blocking everyone’s view of the board, like she's the only one in class trying to copy notes here!

Instead of asking her to move her seat, Santana uses the freakishly tall girl as a shield and then allows her eyes to close. By the time she reopens them, the classroom is empty, and Santana's a half hour late for work. 

Sometimes it feels like the world is against her, but then again, maybe she’s just being stubborn by not allowing the world to help out.

\--

They're eating Chinese food at Cole's place, because the loft has felt so big and empty over the past week and a half. She wonders if that’s what it felt like to Rachel when she was sleeping on Cole's couch after Kurt’s spontaneous U-Haul. 

To be honest, she doesn’t like being in the loft by herself. She learned that over spring break when Rachel went away to Philly, and maybe this realization should clue her into the fact that she has dependency issues, or maybe it’s showing her something else. At this point, who even knows, but Santana’s not going to spend time thinking about it.

Everyone likes to psychoanalyze her, so she’s not going to waste time doing it to herself. Maybe she doesn’t want to know. Maybe the answers to all of her questions are purposely locked away so she doesn’t have to deal with it, and for now, Santana’s okay with that. Facing her feelings is scary, and whenever she tends to do it, she always ends up getting hurt, so why even bother?

She pushes everything to the back of her mind, right along with her breakup with Brittany and everything that’s happened between herself and Rachel. She knows she’ll have to face it someday, someday soon, probably, but right now all she wants to do is forget about it, and Cole’s doing a pretty good job of helping her with that tonight.

As they eat in front of a rerun of the  _Real Housewives_ , Cole tries to teach Santana how to use chopsticks. First, she puts her hand over Santana's, but when that doesn't work, she feeds Santana instead. They laugh hysterically when Cole misses Santana's mouth and hits her in the cheek, and Santana wipes at her face and then asks if she got it all.

Cole shakes her head and reaches forward to wipe the rest off. They pause when her hand slips and their faces end up really close together. Santana’s desperate for a connection—something familiar and safe—and Cole’s right here, with those brown eyes and soft lips she hasn’t tasted in months.

Closing her eyes, Santana leans in to kiss her, but Cole immediately backs away with a weird smile. “Whoa, dude,” she laughs, eyes wide in surprise. "We can't.  _I_  can't."

Santana backs off easily with a slow nod. “Okay,” she drawls, squinting in confusion, because she could have sworn there was something happening between them for a moment. “But I mean, s’not like we haven't before."

Cole awkwardly scratches at the side of her head. "That was a long time ago, and anyway,” she trails off, chewing on the side of her lip. "I just—I'm not going to be someone else for you anymore, Santana."

"What—" Santana cuts herself off with a look of uncertainty. "Wait, I don’t get it. That was always the arrangement, and we both used to be fine with—"

“Things have changed, dude,” Cole interrupts, reaching for the remote to put the television on mute when the housewives start arguing over prenups or something. Running a hand through her blue hair, Cole sits up straight, as if readying herself to say something that’s been on her mind for a while now. "Personally, I don’t need that arrangement anymore, and if I’m being totally honest, neither do you,” she says with a small shrug. “It’s no secret you always want what you can’t have, Santana, and I think you need to realize that sometimes we’re wrong about how we think we feel about someone.”

Santana was following along up until that last point. Now she's just confused. She wants to argue against everything Cole’s saying—because let's be honest, it’s just in her nature to cause conflict in order to distract people from what she’s going through—but Cole has seen a different side of her, and Santana’s come to trust her over the past year, which is the only reason she lets Cole continue without storming out of her apartment.

“I thought I was in love with Parker, but I only knew her for a week before deciding this. And now she’s just that girl in my band who I once had a crush on,” Cole explains, allowing herself to laugh at her past absurdity. "People come and go, but then there’s that person who’s always been there. It took me a while to get that, but now I do.”

Santana can’t keep the sly smile off her face. She heard everything Cole just said, and of course it bugs her, but she can't help but ask, “And what girl helped you realize this?”

Cole huffs out a laugh. “What makes you think there’s a girl? Can’t I come up with shit on my own?”

"Cole—"

She sort of smiles with this pretty little blush and then starts to nervously mess with her chopsticks. “I just...I don't wanna say too much too early. Might jinx it, you know."

Santana smirks, because she gets that. “But you really like her?” she inquires, and Cole nods quietly with this shy smile Santana only ever sees on the girl every once in a while. She's happy for Cole, of course, and she doesn't want to ruin the moment, but she's curious to know, “How do you know for sure? How do you know this time is different than what you felt for Parker?"

Cole looks stumped for a moment, and then just says, "When you know, you know. That's the only way I can describe it."

"Sometimes I feel like I'll never know," Santana says, thoughtfully working the muscles in her jaw as she stares down at the chopsticks in her hands.

"I think you've always known," Cole admits, dropping her white box of rice on the table so that she can rest a hand on Santana's knee and then squeeze comfortingly. "Now don't get mad, okay? But c'mon, Rachel's the person you spend the most time talking about, and if you talk about her this much, I really hate to imagine how much time you spend  _thinking_  about—"

Santana shakes her head with a crooked smile, because this must be a joke. "Dude."

" _Dude_ ," Cole echoes seriously, squeezing Santana's knee even harder to let her know she means business. This isn't air-headed Cole or even high-as-a-kite Cole right now; Santana can tell the difference. Her eyes are dark and piercing, knowing, and so Santana drops the act and listens to what her friend has to say. "I know she hurt you, and that she's kinda nuts, probably, but who isn't these days, you know? Everybody tries to hide their crazy at least a little bit in order to find the one. Don't deprive yourself of something you want just because you're scared."

Annoyed, Santana shifts away from Cole's touch. "I'm not scared."

"We're _all_ scared. What makes you think you're any different?"

There's a knot in her throat, and she tries to swallow it down, but that only succeeds in making her even more choked up. “Can we please drop this?" Santana mutters icily, forcing herself not to cry; she's been doing way too much of that lately. Tears are annoying as fuck, especially when she's not wearing the right kind of eye makeup. "If you’re not going to spill your mystery girl’s name," she says, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, because it's really no mystery at all, "I don’t think I have to own up to any of my shit either.”

Cole looks like she wants to push some more, but she finally relents with a muttered, “Fine, be alone forever for all I care."

“Fine, maybe I will," Santana spits stubbornly, grabbing the rest of her pepper steak from off the coffee table. She sits back with her legs folded into a pretzel, and then stuffs her face until she's too full to remain conscious.

\--

Her showers are shorter than usual. She no longer lingers under the spray of the water, waiting for Rachel to come in and brush her teeth so that they can have their morning talks. She's less shriveled when she leaves the shower, but the bathroom is still equally as steamy. Wrapping a towel around her wet body, she moves toward the sink and then wipes the condensation off the mirror. 

She really looks like shit. 

This morning, she woke up with another text from Rachel. It read,  _I'm willing to move out if it ever comes to that_

Her heart dropped into her stomach as she read over the words, and then she got the weird urge to take a shower, as if that could somehow fix everything. Maybe she was hoping it would clean the slate, or that the water and soap and shampoo would clean her of all the pain she's unknowingly caused her best friend.

She doesn't want Rachel to move out, but she also doesn't want Rachel back here acting like things are the way they used to be. Burying their problems and sweeping their feelings under the rug won't work anymore. Not after this. Not after Rachel opened her heart, and not after Santana broke it.

\--

Her new boss is like, in her mid-twenties, and she's hot, but Santana barely gives her a second look most days. 

It's weird. 

Jackie has brown hair with big brown eyes, and a cute little ass, and Santana would usually be all over that, but now she keeps to herself and just does her job and then goes home. Some would say she's not herself, while others would say she's back to being the Santana from freshmen year who only gave a shit about herself and no one else, because giving a shit meant caring, and caring meant being vulnerable and being vulnerable meant opening herself up to possible hurt.

There's a lot she tries not to think about these days, and while Brittany used to be on the top of that list, the position has now been filled by Rachel. Santana passes a Broadway billboard and— _Rachel_. "Don't Stop Believing" shuffles up on her iPod and— _Rachel_. She opens a cabinet in the kitchen and sees the peanut butter and— _fucking Rachel_. 

Not working makes her think, and thinking isn't good for her right now. Not when she's having thoughts of Rachel, and so Santana drags a heavy box in from the back room and then keeps on stocking the shelves, because the more she stocks, the less she thinks. She's been doing this for three hours straight now, and while it takes more brawns than brains, it keeps her distracted. 

Distractions, good. Thinking, bad.

It's a simple formula, really. Santana attracts girls and girls attract drama, and that's something she really doesn't need right now. Especially when it concerns her boss. That's a type of drama Santana's never even experienced before, but she doesn't plan on experiencing anything of Jackie's any time soon, or ever, if she can control herself.

Distracting herself with someone who reminds her of what she's trying to forget—yeah, bad idea.

At around noontime, Jackie stops at the end of the aisle Santana's working in, and then says, "I'm taking a lunch break in ten. The place has been kinda slow today, so if you wanna join me..."

"I'm okay," Santana says, smiling the best she can as she stacks a book on the shelf. "I ate before I got here."

"Sure?" Jackie checks.

"Yeah."

Santana continues working, but she can still feel Jackie watching her. It's disconcerting when you can physically feel someone's eyes on you when your back is turned.

Jackie takes a few more steps down the aisle. "I know I haven't known you very long," she starts, leaning back against one of the bookcases, "but if there's something up..."

She appreciates the concern. Really, she does. But she'd also appreciate it if everyone would stop treating her like a child. People have issues, and then people deal with those issues. It happens every day. Santana's not special. She's not different. She's not  _that person_. She never asked to be, and she's never going to be, if she can help it. 

So Santana pastes on a fake smile she hopes looks sincere enough, and then says, "Everything's fine, Jackie."

Even though everything's not fine, Jackie. 

\--

The day before, Rachel texted,  _if you ever find yourself unable to sleep, my bed is always open_ , and so Santana lies awake in Rachel's bed now and stares up at the crappy ceiling.

But then she shifts when her head knocks against something sticking out of Rachel's pillow. Santana pulls it out, and she stares blankly at the cover before opening it up and turning to the first page.

Rachel would freak if she knew Santana was reading this. She would throw a fit and yell at Santana to stay out of her things, but Rachel's not here right now, and it's not like Santana's ever been very good at minding her own business.

Rachel knows that.

The entire book isn't all about her, of course, but if she had to put a percentage out there, she'd say about eighty percent is about their friendship, and Rachel's feelings, and how Santana has no idea, and how she tries to get over her multiple times before finally giving up and living with the fact she'll never have Santana the way she wants her. There are scribbles and scratches, pictures and rough sketches, bent corners and even smudges of ink that look like splatters of dried tears.

Santana slaps the book shut and then clutches on to her birthstone necklace. Her eyes sting and a nagging pressure pushes against the back of her eyes. The room blurs as memories come rushing back to her, and it's amazing— _truly amazing_ —how blind she'd been.

She remembers the instances Rachel writes of, and thinking back, she saw. She  _knew_. That look in Rachel's eyes; the way she'd smile at Santana; how she'd always chase those other girls away at Silk; how she never wanted to be around Jenn when they were dating; and how, even in the very beginning, after their first kiss, Rachel had looked so lost and disappointed when Santana admitted to kissing her only because she was missing Brittany.

Maybe it was true, or maybe her words were just excuses, but— _fuck_ , maybe she always knew, somewhere deep inside, and that's why she ran to everyone else, afraid of what it'd mean, afraid of being hurt again, afraid of hurting herself by giving into what she secretly wanted the entire time.

Santana clutches on to her birthstone necklace so hard it creates a crease within her palm. But she doesn't let go. She can't.

\--

It rains as she and Henry exit the theater after just seeing an old cinema film—some zombie apocalypse movie where everyone dies at the end.

Santana wonders about metaphors.

These days all Henry can talk about is the wedding, and it kind of feels like the end of the world in every way possible. Everyone around her is moving on and growing up. Cole has Gwen, even though she doesn’t want to admit it yet, afraid of jinxing it or whatever. Henry and Kurt are shitting rainbows out of their gay asses on their way to the chapel. Even Angela and Daniel are all blissfully happy together as they make everyone jealous with their stupidly cute pictures on Instagram.

It’s hard to be around them sometimes, but they're still her friends. It would be straight up shitty of her to dampen their moods just because of what she’s going through, so when Henry talks about his family—how his niece is going to be the most adorable flower girl ever, and how they bought the ring bearer the cutest little tux they could find—Santana forces a grin and listens attentively. She really is excited for him, and she’s happy he’s so damn happy, but her smile isn’t as big as it could be, apparently, and Henry immediately picks up on that.

He wraps an arm around her waist and then shifts the umbrella over both their heads as they make their way down the street. “You okay?” he asks, before clearing his throat with a sad laugh. “Sorry, stupid question. I just meant—I can’t stand seeing you like this, Santana.”

She keeps telling herself she doesn’t want to talk about it, but what she tells Henry is, “I don’t think I’ve been this confused about my feelings since the beginning of sophomore year.”

“What's confusing you, hon?” he asks, leading them down the street to the nearest coffee shop where they’re meeting up with Kurt for lunch. He didn’t want to see the movie because he’s a pussy, but he texted Henry about five minutes ago to tell his fiancé that he already ordered all of their regulars, so Santana can’t be too bitchy over him bailing on the movie.

“Rachel,” she answers bitterly. “Rachel’s lies. Rachel’s feelings for me. Rachel’s  _everything_. Shall I go on?”

Henry opens the door for her and then closes his umbrella before entering the shop. “If you feel you must,” he says, shaking the rain out of his hair.

Santana only rolls her eyes with a tiny smile as they head over to Kurt, who has grabbed a small table in the back. He winks at her when she sees the full cup of black coffee on the table, and she could seriously kiss him right now. She settles for a hug instead, and then blows on the coffee before taking a small sip.

Nobody makes it quite like Rachel, but it still does the trick. When she’s this exhausted, coffee is coffee.

“So, it seems our Santana is finally ready to talk about  _it_ ,” Henry tells his fiancé with a smirk, and Santana lightly kicks him under the table.

“And it only took two weeks,” Kurt adds with an appraising nod. “I think that’s a new record."

She gets that they’re only teasing her to lighten the mood and make her feel comfortable, so instead of sniping at them for being heartless little shits, she only takes another sip of her coffee and then asks, "So, you guys  _really_  didn't know?”

For a while, she had a hard time believing that. It’s not that she didn’t trust them, but they’d already kept Rachel’s other secret, why should Santana believe they didn’t keep this one as well? Also, Lawrence is Henry’s best friend. Is Santana really supposed to believe he didn’t tell Henry that he was fucking Rachel’s 'boyfriend' on the low?

Kurt only presses his lips together into a frown, as if he had already been expecting this question. “We had no idea. Honestly, I'm a little surprised at Rachel. There's just no way she could've come up with this idea all on her own. It's not in her to be this deceitful,” he notes thoughtfully.

She presses her fingertips together. "Angela then?"

“Perhaps,” he answers with a shrug.

Santana leans back in her chair and, without much conviction, whispers, "That conniving little bitch."

"I'm sorry, are you referring to Rachel or Angela?” Henry questions, before munching down on a blueberry muffin.

She looks at the muffin blankly for a moment, and then says, "I don't even know anymore. I just have so many questions for her."

"Then why are you ignoring her text messages?" Kurt wonders.

Her coffee is still hot, so she sips it slowly. "I really can't talk to her right now,” she tells them, blowing on her coffee again when the brown liquid stings her upper lip.

"She's probably worried about where the two of you stand," Henry says.

She shoots him a dismissive look and then stares down at the wooden table. "As she should. She lied to me."

Kurt nods in understanding. "We know that, but she's your best friend. She cares about you, Santana."

"And that excuses what she did?” Her words come out a little bit louder than she anticipates, and a few people glance in their direction, but Santana only traces the pattern on the table until she's calmed down again. "That excuses her finding a beard, using him to make me jealous, and then sleeping with me to break up my relationship?"

Henry winces. “Well, when you put it that way…"

“Look,” Kurt speaks up after a short pause. "Rachel has strange ways of expressing how she cares for people—"

Santana scoffs. "No, really?"

"—but compared to what she did to get Finn, this is nothing." Santana clenches her jaw angrily, because she knows Kurt's just trying to get to her, but she’s not going to let his words affect her, and they don’t, not until he adds, "You don't even want to know how many of her crazy ideas I had to burn when she was with him."

"Why are you telling me this, Hummel?” she asks, cocking her head to the side in annoyance. "I don't give a flying fuck about Bigfoot, or what crazy shit Rachel did for him, so please, tell me where this is going before I regret asking for your advise."

Pursing his lips, Kurt glances down and calmly flattens his collar. "I am in no way justifying what Rachel did, but in an attempt at making sense of what she was thinking, I'll only say this. Rachel knew she couldn't force you to feel the same way, but knowing you always want what you can't have, she found someone who could showcase and highlight all that was missing in your own relationship, making you want for Rachel and what she could give you, and while that's a clear form of manipulation, she didn't hypnotize you into being jealous,” he says, raising his shoulders into a slow shrug. “And she didn't force you to sleep with her either. You did that all on your own, Santana."

She can’t even believe the shit she’s hearing right now. "Wow, that's fucking grand,” Santana laughs disbelievingly, standing up from the table. Her chair squeaks as it slides backwards, catching the attention of the other patrons. Kurt and Henry glare up at her, willing her to shut up and sit back down with their eyes alone, but fuck that. "You're gonna turn this shit on me? Like I was the one who fooled everyone into thinking Higgins was my devoted boyfriend, when in reality, he's so deep in the closet, he'll even fuck Lawrence on the down low."

"Santana," Henry warns, always protecting his best friend, even when that best friend is a shitty freeloader.

"Sit down, Santana. You’re creating a scene, and I swear to the heavens, if you get me kicked out of here, I’ll never forgive you," Kurt threatens, narrowing his eyes up at her. "This is my favorite spot in the city."

"I thought that was  _Lord & Taylor_."

“Sit  _down_ ,” he demands quietly, and Santana sits, but not because Kurt told her to.

People were starting to stare, and she fucking hates the attention on her when it’s unwarranted.

She huffs and then folds her arms over her chest just to be a brat, but Kurt continues without preamble, saying, "It was your sober decision to give in, so don't you _dare_ say Rachel made you sleep with her. She didn't do anything but make you want her, and while I'll admit she went about this the wrong way entirely, she got to you, and it's because you wanted her to."

Henry hesitates before nodding in agreement. "The brain can deny what it doesn't crave, but you welcomed her without hesitation, and in psychology, that's what we like to call—"

"Nirvana?” she mumbles, throwing him off just to be difficult.

But Henry only chuckles. "Nirvana is spiritual, you idiot,” he says, rolling his eyes. "We like to call it acceptance."

They're all quiet for a while, and Santana grinds her molars and finally allows herself to think this through for the first time in weeks. She's been one-track minded. She's thought about the sex, but only physically. She's thought about her feelings, but only in regard to friendship. It's about time she stops being so afraid. It's about time she stops wanting what she can't have and realize she can actually have everything she's ever wanted.

Curious, Kurt arches a brow. "You never really liked Jenn, did you?"

It's sad, but a shrug is all she can offer. "I liked her enough."

"But not enough to refrain from cheating on her,” he adds, and it’s difficult not to wince at that. She only regrets cheating because it hurt Jenn in the long run, but having Rachel in that way—it's something she secretly always wanted, and somehow, she still craves more.

Henry leans in over the table and says, "Maybe I shouldn't ask this—"

"Maybe you shouldn't."

"—but I can't help but wonder. Would you have cheated with anyone else?" he asks, messing with the crumbs on his plate. "Was it just the sex, or was it whom you were having sex  _with_  that made all the difference?"

She doesn't get why, but tears come to her eyes. She quickly blinks them away before anyone can see, though it’s obvious Kurt and Henry can sense the sudden emotion coursing through her. This is getting way too deep for a public coffee run, so Santana simply says, "Rachel's my best friend."

Kurt smiles softly. "Is that all?"

"She's my rock. She means everything to me, guys," Santana mumbles, closing her eyes when a stupid tear escapes and slides down her cheek, "and you're not slick, you know. I get what you guys are trying to do."

Kurt and Henry share an amused look, and then Henry asks, "Is it working?"

\--

It really sucks her mom never gave her  _the talk_. They had the discussion about the birds and the bees, of course, but not once did she ever talk to Santana about love. Her mom never once told her that love comes in different forms, or that it feels different from each person you receive it from.

Santana didn't know that not every love was going to feel like Brittany’s love, but somehow, she thinks she's okay with that—more than okay, actually, because Santana's pretty sure she spent more time crying than laughing during their entire relationship as both friends and girlfriends.

There’s so many fears to consider, so many what-ifs. What if she cheats, what if Rachel deceives her again, what if she makes the same mistakes she once made with Brittany and Jenn. But she has to stop thinking of the what-ifs. This is what she  _knows_. She misses Rachel. Santana misses her whenever she's gone, and maybe that should have clued her into her hidden feelings long ago.

Santana didn’t move to New York because of Rachel Berry, but she is the reason Santana decided to stay. Rachel's the only one who understands her. She understands her bitchiness, her mood swings, her idiosyncrasies, her everything, and seriously, life was a whole lot fucking easier before she discovered the soft spot she seems to have for all of her best friends.

The realization hit her hours ago—maybe even days ago—but she didn’t allow herself to feel anything, or even think about it, but now that she’s had time to herself, and time to confide in her friends, Santana finally picks up her cell phone and then sits in the stairwell of their loft; she still can't stand to be in there on her own for too long without going mad.

Rachel picks up on the first ring, sounding like hell when she slurs, "Hello?" Her voice is all rough, and there's this nasally quality to it that either means she's been crying, or that she's trying her hardest not to cry right now.

"What else was a lie?" Santana asks, before Rachel can get another word in edgewise.

There's some fumbling on the other line, and then, "That's all, Santana. Lloyd was only my friend," she explains, and then there’s a soft sniffle. "We met in Philly, and he wasn't out yet. It started with me pretending around his friends, but then he wanted to come to New York. So, we made a deal. I'd be his girlfriend and he'd help me make you jealous."

It’s a weak explanation, but she takes it. She considers it, and she believes Rachel anyway.

Santana swallows, heavily, and then rubs at her face. "Did you originally come up with this plan?"

"The idea didn't come from me, no."

"Then who?"

"Cassandra July,” Rachel tells her.

Santana leans back but the narrow step stabs her in the back and forces her to lean forward on her knees again. "Did you really think you were pregnant from a one night stand, or was that just a ploy too?"

"No," Rachel denies immediately. "That was real. I honestly thought I was—"

"Okay," Santana sighs, grabbing onto the banister to pull herself up. "Rachel, I just—fuck, I don't know what and what not to believe anymore."

"What I did was terrible, and I should have told you as soon as the lies started to tangle, but I just—" There's a blustering sigh, right through the speaker, and Santana lets herself shiver at the familiarity in Rachel's tone. "I was afraid you were going to hate me, like you do now."

Santana shuts her mouth at that, because wow, talk about bleakness. "Rachel, I don't hate you," she says, huffing out a strained laugh, because of course Rachel would jump to the worst possible conclusion. 

She paces back and forth in the small stairwell, and the line is quiet for a while, but then she hears the sound of Rachel trying to hide the fact she’s crying, and it feels like a knife going through Santana's stomach. All she wants to do is hang up the phone, find Rachel, and then bring the girl into her arms. Except she can’t. 

Santana's still too hurt to forgive her for this, but, "I could never hate you, Rach, no matter how insane you are."

Rachel sniffles again. "You should though."

"Probably. But I don't. You're my—hell, I don't even know anymore, but whatever we are, we're each others, and that's..."

Santana awkwardly scratches at her shoulder, because she literally sucks at displaying her emotions and revealing anything she’s feeling with words, but she reminds herself that this is still Rachel, her favorite person, her best friend, and somehow she finds a way to power through.

"I just can't imagine not having you in my life. The loft, without you, is sad and depressing as fuck. I could stay mad at you for what you did—because Lord knows I'm entitled to, but what would that accomplish?" she asks no one in particular, surprised at the salty taste of her tears when she licks at her lips. "The loft would still be sad and depressing as fuck, and so would I."

"Me too," Rachel says in a small voice, and Santana can't help but smile, even if Rachel's still faintly hiccuping through her tears.

"It was over between Jenn and I before it even began." Santana rubs at the back of her neck so hard she’s sure the skin is probably red by now. "You helped me realize that I connect best through intimacy, and I think that's where we need to start in rebuilding our friendship."

"With…" Rachel trails off uncertainly, and then finally just asks, "With sex?"

Rolling her eyes, Santana allows her smile to reach her eyes for the first time in a while, but she can still feel the tracks of her tears when her cheeks lift. Nobody knows how to tug her heart out of her chest quite like Rachel Berry. 

"No, Rach. We rebuild by forgiving each other for having sex for all the wrong reasons," she explains, and then exhales after a long moment. Her chest feels as if she’s been holding her breath throughout this entire conversation. "Before we start off fresh, I think I should let you know..."

Rachel waits a beat and then, "Yeah?"

She doesn't respond at first, because they kind of just made up, and she doesn't want to ruin it with something as minuscule as this, but they promised no more secrets. "I might have read some or all of your journal," Santana admits sheepishly.

There's a long pause, but then Rachel just sighs and says, "I had a feeling you would." She doesn't sound mad. Not at all. And Santana absently wonders if maybe Rachel wanted her to read the journal; if maybe she was meant to find that blue spired book with the white tulips under Rachel's pillow.

"Yeah," Santana drawls hesitantly, leaning up against a warm brick wall. "Sorry about that."

Rachel only breathes calmly through the line. "It's okay," she says, almost in amusement, and then asks, "Was it—did you read anything interesting?"

Her lips quirk into a crooked smile. Some of what she read was sad, while other parts were just plain heartbreaking, but the part she actually smiled at—well, you can't really blame her for reading it over more than once. "I—um...I may remember coming across something about how I gave you the best orgasm you've ever received. S'that true?"

"Well," Rachel hesitates, and Santana can hear the smile in her voice. "I mean, it'd be ridiculous to lie to my own diary, wouldn't it?"

Santana cracks a grin. Rachel still hasn't said it. She needs to hear Rachel say it. "So, it's true?" she asks again, just to be a bitch.

Rachel laughs softly, and then she easily says, almost in relief, "It's true."

The line goes silent, and Santana eventually sits back down on the staircase and then glances down at her white tank top, tucking her chin into her chest as she presses her cell phone against her ear. "What are you doing right now?" she finally asks, scratching at the tip of her eyebrow.

"Making coffee. Black," Rachel adds with a giggle, "You?"

"Sweating my ass off in our hot ass stairwell."

Rachel laughs again, more openly, and Santana really can’t say how much she missed the sound of that. 

"I love that stairwell," Rachel says, but somehow, it feels like she’s saying something else.

Unexpected tears spring into Santana's eyes, but she doesn’t bother blinking them away this time. "Same," she says, and somehow, it feels like she’s saying something else too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last installment of the series is next :(

**Author's Note:**

> two more parts left (this one included). the last part will go back to Rachel's POV.


End file.
